


Swan Song

by Nenalata



Series: Dragon Dances [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Art, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn, angstish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-04-29 10:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 71,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5124356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nenalata/pseuds/Nenalata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's the point of having perfect technique and graceful movements when the thought of dancing makes him sick to his stomach? Art is meaningless without passion, without emotion, without intent. Modern, city, dance AU featuring F!Hawke/Fenris and all your favorite denizens of Kirkwall and some of your least favorites. Strong language, strong emotions, and strong dancers inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Allegro non troppo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So what do you do in that gigantic house all day?"  
> "Dance, of course."  
> "Really?"  
> "I run from room to room, choreographing routines."

 

“Point!” His feet were killing him.

“Flex!” Even the spaces between his toes were dripping in sweat.

“Split!” His legs were scalding iron rods, inflexible and scorching with pain.

“Flat back, Fenris!” He complied, not giving Hadriana the satisfaction of seeing him glare. Or maybe he was just too tired to look at her.

Only five more minutes until rehearsal was over for the day. Five more minutes of this supposed “cool-down,” and then he was free to take an icy bath. He could almost taste the rivulets of water coursing over his aching limbs, feel them freeze up his muscles with their frigidity. At this point in the torture, the idea of not alternating from cold to hot seemed like a deliciously rebellious plan. He’d pay for it later with lasting soreness, but how _good_ it would feel—

“Fenris, you’re lagging! You’re staying behind an extra fifteen. Everyone else, get out of here.”

He wondered how good it would feel to hold her beating heart in his hands and crush it.

* * *

 

“Fuck you, Gamlen! I’m sick of you thinking you can tell me what to do!”

“Boy, if you had even a drop of spit’s worth of sense in that thick skull of yours, you’d realize that sometimes your elders have more wisdom than you!” Gamlen spat back.

“Fuck you!”

“Creative,” Marian mumbled, unfortunately just within Carver’s earshot.

“Yeah? Well, fuck you, too!” and with those equally imaginative words, Carver stormed out the front door of the apartment. Marian could hear his angry stomping footsteps down the stairs; the elevator was out of commission again. There were benefits to living on the top floor of the complex, if you squinted really hard, but most of the time, it sucked. She supposed Carver was pleased by it, since it meant he usually got to have a dramatic exit from their flat every time he had a spat with Gamlen. Those spats were becoming worrisomely frequent these days.

Gamlen, for his part, didn’t even look at her. Muttering unflattering things about his nephew under his breath, he grabbed his cracked leather jacket from its hook by the door and departed, too, slinging the ancient thing over his shoulders as he went. Marian had long ago stopped pretending he was going out to search for Carver, even though Gamlen continued to keep up the façade. She had run into him all too often at his favorite hole-in-the-wall, drinking so much cheap whiskey that he never recognized her.

She would have been more sympathetic to her uncle if he’d even once tried to make an effort to bridge the gap between him and Carver since Mother had died, but no, he’d just dived even deeper into his whiskey bottle and the family funds. Marian didn’t have much sympathy for the man sinking the family ever more into debt.

Alone in the apartment, she rose from her seat at the kitchen table and picked up the phone from its pedestal of honor by the tiny television. Varric’s number was practically branded into her thumb memory at this point, and she’d dialed it even before thinking about whom to call.

He picked up on the second ring, as he’d always said was polite to do—not overeager, but not making the other person wait. “Yello? That you, Hawke?”

“Who else doesn’t have caller ID?” He chuckled at that, and she grinned at the sound. Varric never made her feel anything less for her family situation, but he never pitied her, either. One of the many things she liked about him, she supposed. “Carver ran off somewhere, and this time it was pretty bad. I have a feeling he might be coming to you to cut off ties—just thought I’d give you a heads-up.”

Varric sighed, previous good humor dissipated. “Okay, okay. But I think you should come down here, Hawke. I know you don’t get along, but maybe it’ll drive the point home if someone he knows better is there.”

“If you think it’s a good idea, I’ll trust your judgment, but I don’t know how long we’ll be able to keep him tethered to Gamlen like this. If I can’t handle him, he’s gone for good.”

“Okay, okay.” A pause. Marian heard Varric pull his overly-sensitive cell away from his ear for a moment, then he was back. “I just saw him walk in here. Looks like he’s going to get a drink and hit on the customers for a bit, so you got time. Come in through the back so he doesn’t see you.”

“Got it.” She hung up quickly to allow Varric some time to collect himself before the confrontation, and so that she could pull her sweatshirt on all the faster. In thirty seconds flat she was out the door, pounding the concrete stairs with her boots as she raced to the Hanged Man.

* * *

 

The icy bath had been a terrible idea. No, maybe the icy bath wouldn’t have been _such_ a terrible idea had Fenris not also decided to get work done on his tattoo. Every movement that the artist made drilling the white lines into the skin on his feet was a struggle on Fenris’s part not to jerk and ruin everything. It didn’t help that somehow, _somehow_ it had slipped his mind how many millions of tiny bones were in each individual foot. He wasn’t so far gone that he would say he preferred Hadriana’s rehearsals to this, but it was close.

The difference was, he _chose_ to get these markings burned into his skin. The difference was, no one was telling him that if he didn’t get these tattoos, there would be hell to pay. The difference was—

The tattoo artist was saying something. Fenris blinked at the woman without comprehending.

“I said, I’m done with this foot now. You sure you wanna continue with the other one? You seem kinda…jumpy today.”

“No, it’s fine,” Fenris said gruffly. “Do it.”

“You sure? Cuz I can refund you the—“

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. The artist only began refilling her ink, used to her best customer’s short fuse.

Another agonizing procedure, and then it was done. The artist gave him the same care instructions she always did, bandaging his feet in the same cling-wrap she always did, and he was out without much more than “thanks” like he always did. Walking, what with the sore muscles and the new tattoos, wasn’t the most pleasant way to get back to the apartment, so hey, big spender today, he hailed a cab. He sank back into the sticky pleather seats and closed his eyes for the duration of the short trip, shoving a handful of bills the cabbie’s way when he arrived. He’d probably over-tipped him. Oh, well.

The apartment complex was quiet as he rode the elevator up—the flat was only on the second floor, but the thought of stairs made his quads scream—but his sense of unease did not lessen until he opened the door and found the space blissfully empty. Hadriana probably had convinced herself that she’d scared Fenris away for a while and was out with the sycophants she called friends; she wouldn’t be back for a while. As for the leaseholder of the apartment, heaven knew where he was, but Fenris wasn’t going to think about him now.

Instead, he hobbled to his tiny closet of a room and closed the door behind him, gently lowering himself onto his low bed. The closed door was more of an idle hope than an actual “do not disturb” sign; anyone needing him would simply barge in, privacy be damned. Whatever; while he was alone in this house, he could pretend.

Fenris lay back on the bed and shut his eyes, and with that, the aches and pains of today coursed over his body. His leg muscles throbbed, his feet itched, and all in all, the overwhelming bitterness that accompanied him everywhere he went weighed especially heavily on his chest today.

One day, he’d get out of here. He’d promised himself that ever since he could remember, but here he was, lying in an apartment that didn’t belong to him, muscles aching from an activity he hated. But one day, that beautiful _someday_ would arrive swathed in silk and velvet, and he’d be out of here like Danarius and Hadriana had never existed. No one to pull him back from bars in the name of “practice time;” no one to force him to push his body to the breaking point; no one to dictate every aspect of his life and call him “ungrateful” when he complained. That _someday_ would come, he was sure of it, and he was sure it would be soon.

His door burst open, interrupting his daydreams, and there stood Hadriana, reeking of expensive martinis and cheap cologne. Fenris glanced at the clock. It was hardly nine o’clock, and he was willing to guess she’d already downed three drinks and been fondled by four men, going by smell alone. “Fenris, Danarius is looking for you,” she told him, imperious but for the slight slur in her words.

He didn’t even bother asking why Danarius didn’t come in himself. Danarius wouldn’t stoop so low as see his ward in his quarters, and there was a part of Fenris that was glad he had this space Danarius-free, at least. So instead, he nodded and rose, feeling his muscles and feet weep in the process, though he tried to mask the pain. Hadriana stepped aside ever so slightly to let him pass, and he walked by her to greet the man he hated above all others.

* * *

 

The Hanged Man wasn’t as busy as Varric had made it seem over the phone; even coming in through the back, Marian had to do a little bit of shuffling and hiding to make sure her brother didn’t spot her. Her hood pulled up and her head down, she moved from the door leading from the street to the door leading to Varric’s office, careful to move slowly and unhurriedly. When Varric’s office door finally shut behind her, she removed the hood and breathed a sigh of relief. Varric gave her a tired grin at the sound, looking up from his desk.

“How bad is it looking?” he asked as he folded his hands together and leaned back in his chair. Mahogany frame and some sort of technological wizard cushy fabric; he’d spent a fortune on it so he could comfortably sit in the exact pose he was in right now.

“Small pleasures in life don’t come along very often, Hawke,” Varric had explained as the moving crew staggered in with it a few summers ago. “And when they do, they’re worth the pricetag.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the phrase, ‘small pleasures?’” she’d responded, but he’d waved her off as a lost cause who was too focused on, well, being poor to appreciate his higher mindset.

“The worst yet,” Marian now answered. “He was particularly inspired in his insults, and by that I mean they were even more unoriginal than they usually are.”

“You’re too hard on him,” Varric said with a shake of his head. “With Gamlen for a role model, I can’t imagine his linguistic sensibilities to be impressive.”

“We come from an artsy family, Gamlen aside,” Marian sighed. “The least I can hope to expect from him is a bit of creativity.”

Varric gave her a look. ”We better drop the condescension. I think I hear—“

“Varric!” Pounding on the office door followed the shout. “It’s Carver Hawke!”

Marian rolled her eyes, earning another warning raised eyebrow from Varric before he called back, “Come on in.”

“Varric, I’ve come to say goodbye.” Carver began speaking before the door had even cracked open. “You’ve always—“ He broke off when he caught sight of his sister, and shock rendered his face blank before the familiar scowl etched itself back into his expression. Marian offered a smile in return, which only made the scowl settle deeper. “What’s _she_ doing here?”

“Your sister’s worried about you, Ju—Carver.” Varric caught himself, but not quite fast enough. Carver opened his mouth to protest—probably something to the effect of _my sister is the reason none of you respect me_ —but the shorter man continued speaking as if no slip of the tongue had occurred. “And I am, too, come to think. Now, you know I’m no preacher, but you’ve been cutting a lot of people out of your life recently, and that can’t feel good, right? Despite our differences, we’re all here for you—“

“You’re right,” Carver sneered. “You’re no preacher. I’ve come to settle my tab with you, not hear an uninspired lecture.” He turned to Marian. “It’s a good thing you’re here, sister. Might as well get this out of the way. I’m leaving.”

Marian blinked at her brother’s earnestness. The scowl, still present on his face, didn’t entirely mask the firm set to his jaw. “You’re determined, I see. So the apartment you told Gamlen about…?”

“It’s real. I found a place in River Thaig for not too much money.”

River Thaig was certainly a nicer neighborhood than where the Hawke/Amell clan had situated itself. “’Not too much money’ doesn’t mean much if you don’t have any money to begin with,” Marian pointed out. “We’re not exactly rolling in it, Carver.”

Her little brother only levelled a cool stare Varric’s way. “Fortunately, I have enough money for the apartment, and to settle my tab. Here you go, Varric. Ten sovereigns, as promised.” He took out his wallet, calmly but dramatically, and took a long time in shuffling through a wad of bills before selecting a ten-sovereign mark and placing it on the smooth desktop. Varric and Marian watched, stunned, as Carver replaced the wad of bills in his wallet and turned to leave. With his hand on the doorknob, he seemed to think better of something. Inclining his head a fraction in Marian’s direction, he said, “I’m going to get my things, and then I’ll be off. I suppose if you need to contact me, you can call in at the Stannard firm off of Main Street.”

The door clicking shut behind him echoed in the small office.  Varric and Marian gaped at each other in the silence for a few moments before Varric pulled out his phone and began tapping on the screen.

“Main Street?” Marian repeated, incredulous.

“I’m looking it up right now.”

She waited an agonizing few seconds for Varric to finish his search. Something about the name of the firm rang a bell in the back of her mind, but it truly was the very back, where dusty childhood memories and strangers’ faces lay. Carver didn’t have the temperament to be a lawyer, and he wouldn’t be making enough cash for an apartment in River Thaig as an intern. Who in their right mind would hire an eighteen-year-old spitfire, anyway?

“Stannard Architects, 1600 Main Street,” Varric finally spoke up.

The sound of the name fell like a sack of flour on Marian’s back. “Architects? He’s working at an architecture firm?”

“Apparently.”

She chewed her lip and considered this. “I never knew.”

“No kidding.”

“He’d always hated the frou-frou artsy-fartsy stuff we all did. With Bethany off at school, he’d gotten even more bitter about it, so I just assumed…”

Varric snorted. “So you’re…all right with this? You don’t feel like he’s, I don’t know, shitting on the family name like you always accuse him of doing?”

Marian smiled at him. “It’s nice to see him finally embracing us, at least in his own way.” She ignored Varric’s disbelieving scoff. “I’m proud of him. He was never going to live with me and Gamlen forever, anyway. Maybe I should look into getting my own place, too.”

“That’s pretty big of you, Hawke, but I remember you have an unpaid tab with me and no way to settle it.”

She shrugged. “Well, I’m teaching a class this week. Maybe instead of trying to pay you back, I can start saving up.”

“Yeah, right.”

Marian flicked his nametag over with long fingers and rose to leave. “C’mon, Varric. I’m trying. There’s not much work in this city for a dancer.”

* * *

 

He arrived at the studio a few mornings later fifteen minutes before registration was scheduled to start. Finding a bench to sit on was simple enough, with only a few early birds like him dotting the hallway. Together in their separate parts of the hallway, they stared at the closed studio room door, willing it to open and admit them. Fenris, for his part, was looking forward to the end of what was shaping up to be a long morning and would be longer still. After Danarius had informed him of the audition, this audition, that he’d wanted his ward to attend, Hadriana had made it her personal duty to ensure Fenris be made aware of everything that he absolutely _had_ to check before the day of. Did he check the studio’s dress code? Had he researched each esteemed dancer who would be overseeing the audition? Had he done his homework and tried to figure out who his competitors were?

To Hadriana, dance was always a competition of skill. But as Fenris surveyed the other dancers trickling into the hallway, all he saw was enthusiasm and a bit of nerves, not fierce, cutthroat warriors ready to kill over the role of the Swan Queen. Bubbling with energy, they poured into the studio as the registration team allowed them entry. Fenris followed them silently, absorbing their excitement and hoping some of it would imbue his soul. It didn’t, of course; not as he handed over twenty sovereign bills, not as he filled out his card with mechanical numbness, not as he pinned the number fourteen to the front of his shirt.

He began stretching alone, nodding in acknowledgement when one of the dancers would direct a smile his way. As much as he hated this, there was no sense in antagonizing any of the other dancers. Still, he doubted his aura invited companionship. Despite the friendly smiles flashed his way, despite his recognition of the other men and women’s existences, he remained a solitary figure, a little distance away from the others. He sighed. That probably wouldn’t help things—no one liked a lone wolf.

“Good morning,” someone said brightly from the front of the room. The auditionees murmured polite greetings back, stopping their exercises. A slim older woman stood at the front of the room, clutching a clipboard to her chest. “Welcome to the Ballet Magisterium auditions for Swan Lake. We’ll begin with a class, then move onto repertoire. Thank you for…”

Fenris tuned her out at a certain point, only moving to take cues from the rest of the class when they smiled or nodded. Danarius had been more insistent than usual when telling him about this audition, and Fenris knew why. Danarius was practically wetting himself over the thought of one of his students being able to join the prestigious Ballet Magisterium company, and since Hadriana had injured her hamstrings pretty badly six years ago, Fenris was his best bet. Danarius had oh-so-benevolently taken his ward in more than nine years ago, but that had been with the expectation that he would have not one, but two star pupils to show off. Now, with Hadriana unable to dance in productions anymore, it was all on Fenris to shine.

The class was breaking up for the barre; Fenris snapped to attention and found a spot in closer to the front than the middle. He was never the type to wear flashy tights or anything; he knew his technique was crisp enough to draw attention away from the sloppier dancers. Still, it was better to be near the front, where the judges sat, in case some freak dancer with better skills than Fenris possessed showed up and took the spotlight.

They began. _Pliés_ in first, second, fourth and fifth position. _Tendu_. _Dégagé_. _Rond de jambes_. _Fondu_ , _frappé_ , _développé_ , _grand battement_. The familiar movements, rather than calming, set Fenris on edge. As they moved to the center, he wondered when his antipathy towards ballet had reached such a high. He’d been doing this for ten years—the routines, the rehearsals, the exercises—and while he’d never enjoyed it, it was something he’d had a knack for, and he’d put up with Hadriana and Danarius’s expectations because it kept him off the streets. Part of his allowance was still being sent to his mother and sister, after all—though he no longer knew the address, because they’d moved, and Danarius wrote and sent the checks himself.

Maybe, he mused as they began _petit allegro_ , maybe it was when Danarius had told him that his family had moved too far away and he could no longer spare the time to see them that was when the seeds of hatred had been planted. He’d never liked his caretakers from the get-go, but as the years went on and it became clear Fenris’s talent was what was important, and even that Danarius had _so selflessly_ cultivated in him, he began to actually hate them. The punishments perhaps he’d have been able to deal with—his mother, on her own with short funds, had never been known for gentle parenting—but it was feeling like he wasn’t even worth his salt as a person that he couldn’t deal with. The lack of respect, the lack of self-worth, the lack of—

“Argento Balendin will teach you the repertoire,” the older woman chirped from the front as the class wound down. Fenris blinked. He’d completely gone on autopilot after the warm-up, instinctively following the called-out directions of the class. That probably wasn’t good. Argento, a tall man about thirty years old, rose from the table and began going over the routine. Fenris tried to follow with a steady mind. Hadriana’s shrill voice crying, “Straight back, Fenris!” in the back of his mind kept him alert for a time, but it was a fury-induced alertness. He wasn’t surprised when dancer number fourteen was asked to repeat a section with another group—it wasn’t only his skill that had made him easy to single out.

He moved with the other dancers in the same pattern, focusing only on his arms, his feet—the tattoos had healed nicely, leaving them feeling healthy again—and the sweat beginning to trickle down his back. He was sure his intensity could be read in his expression as he helped another auditionee turn, his hands lightly pushing against her abdomen, his eyes blazing into hers.

And finally, it was over. He was nothing if not professional—despite his own inner turmoil, he had kept his face neutral, if a bit intense, and had moved with the grace he usually did. The older woman whose name escaped him thanked them, and the many dancers shuffled out of the large studio. A few of the dancers clustered together making plans, laughing quietly as they exited the building. Fenris slouched out as well, glaring at the hot summer sun as it beat down on his already warm body. He’d have to take a taxi back, since Danarius only rewarded him with his private car when Fenris had made callbacks. It was either that, the subway, or walking, but he didn’t feel particularly inclined to get back to the flat in a hurry.

“Hi!” A bright voice startled him out of his travel plans. “You’re number fourteen, right?” She was the dancer that Fenris had been partnered with during the repetition of the routine, and now she was smiling at him shyly.

“Fenris,” he said in lieu of agreeing.

“Hi, Fenris. I’m Diana. Do you want to get lunch together?” The smile grew, hopefully and even more shyly, and Fenris found himself taken aback. No one had ever spoken to him after auditions save basic pleasantries, and definitely not to make lunch plans. When she saw his hesitation, she added, “You know, we can talk shop. You have an absolutely incredible grace about you; I’d love to—“

“No, thanks,” he cut her off, his surprise souring into his typical bitterness. “I’m not hungry at the moment.”

“Oh, we can stop by the park—“

“I have other plans,” he said bluntly. And he would make them, if it meant getting away from the dance world for a while. When he saw her face fall, aware he’d been impolite, he tried apologizing. “Thank you, though. I appreciate the thought.”

He made his escape from her embarrassed goodbyes and began walking. The direction had been chosen at random; the destination had yet to be decided. But he walked with purpose nonetheless, hoping his confidence would deter any other dance buddies from trying to engage in conversation with him. He passed out of the theatre district, clipped River Thaig on a corner, and before he knew it, he’d walked to the border between Hightown and Lowtown. Here was familiar territory, but familiar only in his youth. New buildings had cropped up in the ten years since, shops changing storefronts, and only the street names had stayed the same. Even that wasn’t helpful to him.

But something was different. The tiny complex he’d hesitated to call home as a child should have been on the same run-down street, only the run-down street looked to be shaping up to be an almost-nice shopping district. The complex had been torn down, and several shops with big glass windows that hadn’t been shattered yet had sprung up in its place. There were even plastic signs standing outside some of the storefronts, unafraid of thieves.

Something in Fenris’s heart clenched at the sight, something about his childhood memories being purged from this city. He crossed the street to inspect one of the signs and nearly knocked it over in frustration. Lots of swirly purple dry-erase marker had been scrawled onto the sign, but it wasn’t the sloppiness that infuriated him. Very clearly drawn on the whiteboard were shoes, music notes and a boom box. He slowly turned his head to the side to survey the glass windows, and sure enough, posters of women in black leotards lined the hallway inside.

Didn’t it just figure that even his childhood couldn’t escape this hell? Without thinking about it further, he grabbed the door handle and flung it open, striding through the doors until he entered the lobby. A teenager with a high ponytail smiled at him as he approached the desk, which only served to make him angrier. He was in no mood for smiles today.

* * *

 

Marian waved goodbye to her students and began putting her dance shoes back in their coverlets. It had been a good class this time around—ten girls and two boys, almost all of them paying attention the entire time. Half of the students in attendance had come to her classes at least twice before, which was nice. It always felt good to get younger kids interested in the art form.

She headed outside the studio and began fetching her things from the locker room. It hadn’t been a particularly strenuous class, since so many of the kids were beginners, so she probably wasn’t sweaty enough that walking home in her workout clothes would be gross, but at the same time, she didn’t want to get her street clothes messed up by the slight sweat she _had_ worked up.

These interesting thoughts on her mind distracted her as she threw her water bottle and CDs into her gym bag all the way to the lobby. It wasn’t until she was right outside the lobby door that she heard a commotion within.

Marian thrust open the door to find a terrified Brielle confronted by a man she’d never seen before. The man was speaking in low tones, but the deepness of his voice reverberated through the walls.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know when the studio was built,” Brielle was squeaking, nervous and loud. “I only started working here this summer.”

“Tell me who I can contact about the previous tenants of this building,” the man was talking over her with gritted teeth.

“I don’t know, I’m sorry! I don’t know.”

“Excuse me,” Marian interrupted loudly, shifting her bag to the other shoulder. Both Brielle and the man jumped visibly. How on earth had they not heard her come in? “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

The man looked abashed, at least. Marian took him in, wondering if she should call the cops. Slender frame but definitely muscular—that was a dancer’s body if she knew one. Definitely ballet, judging by the black ballet shoes slung over his shoulder and the sleeveless white shirt and black tights, but it was a little strange for someone to be walking home dressed in practice attire. The most striking part of his appearance had to be his shock of white hair, but he couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. Still, looks were deceiving. How best to signal Brielle to call the police from the phone behind the desk if things got unpleasant?

“I’d like to know when this studio opened up,” he said, his disapproval evident.

“About three years ago,” Marian answered, keeping a bright smile on her face.

“And it replaced the apartments?”

“No, it replaced a law office, I think.” It was a pretty small studio because of that—only two converted dance rooms, one of them with the locker room attached to it.

“And before that?”

“I’m not certain.” She had only moved here a little before the studio had opened up.

The man made a noise of annoyance and cast glaring eyes at the posters. Marian stepped a foot closer to the lobby desk and asked pointedly, “Is there anything else we can help you with?”

The man started again, clearly lost in his incomprehensible mood. “No, I…so you teach dance here?”

“Yes, this is a contemporary and jazz studio.”

“I meant ballet.”

Marian blinked, trying to gauge if he was being intentionally rude or not. “No, I’m afraid not.”

The man nodded once, an iota of strange approval in the expression, and continued to look around. Brielle cast a frantic look Marian’s way, but Marian shook her head carefully. Whatever temper had gripped this man earlier seemed to have dissipated, replaced by curiosity.

“Would you like a schedule of classes?” she offered. “We have classes for beginners, if you’re interested, though I’m sure with your ballet background, you’ll pick up on it quick enough. I’m Marian Hawke, and—”

The man made a face. “I have enough dance in my life.”

“Dancing’s not just ballet, you know,” Brielle blurted out impatiently. “There are loads of art forms to explore.” She pushed the small pile of schedules for the month in the man’s direction. Marian was impressed; despite Brielle’s irritation with the unruly dancer in front of them, she was always eager to share her passion.

The man picked up one of the pieces of paper between two fingers like it might bite him, then quickly dropped it. “No thank you. Dance is not an art form.” With those charming words, he left, the door banging shut behind him.

“Man, what a jerk,” Brielle complained, shuffling the schedules to form a neater pile on the desk. “I’m glad he’s gone.”

Marian stared at the door. “I wish he’d come back,” she muttered.

“You’re kidding, right?”

She moved to the door and began locking up. “He’s obviously an experienced dancer. You can tell that just by looking at him. I just can’t imagine why he’d say those things when it’s so clear he’s spent a lot of time doing this.”

“Who cares?” Brielle snorted. “He’s an asshole. Probably thinks ballet’s the highest form of dance or whatever; of course he doesn’t think it’s an art form if he’s done it to death.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Marian said, though something told her otherwise. “I doubt we’ll see him again, anyway.”

 


	2. Allegro, Tempo di valse

“Fenris.”

The sound of his name fell in the silent room like a drop of poison in a puddle of rainwater. Fenris raised his gaze from his dinner to just barely meet Danarius’s eyes. Subserviently, demurely, just as he’d been taught.

“I received a call from the director of Ballet Magisterium.” _You wouldn’t recognize the name if I gave it to you_ was the unspoken omitting of the name. “You are on the list for callbacks next week.”

Fenris began lowering his gaze, keeping his expression neutral, but to his surprise, Danarius spoke up again.

“If it weren’t as a favor to me, you wouldn’t even be on the list to begin with, I was told.” The words were spoken evenly, but there danger lurked beneath that even tone. It was a danger Fenris was familiar with. “Apparently, you lack any sort of emotion in your movements that was obvious to everyone. While you are competent technically enough to have even made callbacks, I was told that chances of your making any sort of role at all are slim.” Out of the corner of his vision, he could see Danarius’s eyes burning in an otherwise placid face. “Fenris, look at me.”

Fenris looked, and Danarius rose from the table, tall and imposing and most certainly threatening. “See that you prove them wrong, Fenris.” He nodded at Hadriana, sitting with her back ramrod-straight, and swept away from the table. As soon as his towering figure disappeared from the dining room, Hadriana began clearing the table. When she scooped up Fenris’s plate from beneath his raised fork, he did not object even as fury boiled within him. He watched her with barely veiled contempt as she scraped his meal into the kitchen trash compactor, but when she turned around to grab the wineglasses, he wiped his expression clean again.

“Your rudeness does you no credit,” Hadriana said snippily, clinking the wineglasses together in one hand.

“I said nothing at all,” Fenris responded before he could think better of it.

“And yet you’re no more charming for your silence.” She took his own half-full wineglass in her free hand and left the room. The remark had been disturbingly mild for her, and Fenris had the familiar paranoid sensation that he was in for something much worse. He pushed back from the table, chair scraping along the parquet, and darted out of the dining room before Hadriana could call him back.

* * *

 

“But I don’t _want_ to take a pole-dancing class.”

“Of course you do, kitten; that’s why I’m inviting you.”

Marian sipped her drink and averted her eyes. Isabela waited. Marian took another sip, and Isabela thumped her shoulder.

“Don’t be a sissy. It’s exercise and dancing—you love exercise and dancing! It’s your thing!”

“I wish you’d take my ‘no’ as an answer. Rude.”

“Sorry to interrupt, ladies,” Varric piped up from behind the bar counter, “but are either of you planning on actually paying for your drinks tonight? Just wondering.”

“Put it on my tab,” both women said instantly. Varric sighed and continued wiping the counter, shaking his head.

Isabela leaned in closer. “’Dancing isn’t an art form,’ he said, right? Well, prove him wrong by getting a tight little tummy with a pole-dancing class! You will _become_ art.”

“That’s not—“ Marian threw back the rest of her drink and coughed as the whiskey went down wrong. Isabela patted her back gently, being supremely unhelpful, until she could breathe again. “My tummy is plenty tight, thank you very much. And I’m fairly certain that there’s more to it than just looking good. He seems—“

Isabela groaned loudly, cutting her off. “Who _gives_ two shits? He sounds like one of the brooding artist types, and we all know we don’t need more of them sniffing around.”

“I give at least two shits. If nothing else, I need to know how to deal with people like him. In this world, it’s so difficult to get the right recognition and respect without the dancers themselves causing trouble.”

“’In this world,’ I actually don’t care. He may have a point, you ever think about that? Dancing is just another way to make cash. There’s no art in life.” Before Marian could protest—which she most certainly was about to—Isabela finished her own drink and continued talking. “Don’t pout at me, kitten. It was a mistake to even bring the brooding ballet boy up—I just wanted to go dancing with you, spend some time with you.”

Marian could feel her cheeks coloring and turned her face towards the door before Isabela could notice. Of course she was too slow.

“You’re _blushing_! What an absolute doll. Do I distract you that easily?”

Before Marian could come up with a response, before she could say something utterly embarrassing, the door swung open to admit a man with familiar white hair. She heard Isabela whistle lowly from behind her.

“That’s him, isn’t it? He has a certain…smoldering quality about him, doesn’t he?”

“He’s going to hear you.”

“I _want_ him to hear me. If you won’t say hello, then I will.” The man began making his way towards the opposite end of the bar. Isabela watched him order his drink with curious eyes. Marian watched the ogling happening in front of her with a vague degree of annoyance, which became even more defined as Isabela caught the man’s eye and winked.

“Isabela—“

But she was gone, making her way to the opposite end of the counter. He was hunched over in his barstool, sending off very clear waves of “do not approach me” that Isabela completely ignored. Marian waved Varric over for another drink, not in the mood to watch Isabela hunt for the night’s prospect.

“I’m cutting you off, Hawke.” Varric leaned over the counter and plucked the empty glass out of her grip.

Marian scowled. “Are you kidding me? I’ve only had one drink.”

“And you’ve only had about fifty sovereigns’ worth of drinks in the past few months that I haven’t hounded you about. But enough’s enough. I give my friends free drinks in the expectation that they’ll pay for a couple in the future.”

“Varric,” Marian began, but he only shook his head.

“I know times are tough for you, but I can’t give you freebies forever. You’re welcome to hang out here—I don’t mind that—but you can’t keep slurping up all my merchandise like this.”

“I’m not _slurping_ it up. Anyway, fine, I get it.” She stretched and got off her seat. “I’m not welcome here anymore. I’ll call you later.”

“That’s not what I’m—hey, Hawke,” he called as she headed towards the door, loudly enough for her to be embarrassed. She returned to the counter, ignoring the questioning glance Isabela threw her way from her conversation with the antagonistic dancer. At least they seemed to be hitting it off.

“What?”

“You can stay here all you like. Look, maybe Isabela can get someone to buy you a drink.”

“I don’t want someone to take pity on me, Varric,” Marian snapped. “I just need to get my shit together and be successful like my brother, don’t I?”

Varric seemed about to respond when another voice interrupted.

“You are Marian Hawke, I assume.”

Marian whirled around to find the man with white hair a few feet away, looking directly at her. From behind him, next to the seat the man had evidently vacated, Isabela beamed at her.

“Eavesdropping isn’t very polite,” she forced a smile of her own his way. The smile, judging by the way his permanent frown settled a little deeper into his features, didn’t offset her impatient remark. Maker, was it too much to ask for a moment alone when she wanted one?

“You were yelling halfway across the bar,” the man noted, and Marian tried not to let embarrassed anger bubble out of the pit of her stomach and through her mouth in the form of furious retorts.

“Something I can help you with?” She bit the corner of her cheek before she flung any insults or what-have-you his way.

“That depends,” he responded, meeting her impatient eyes with a scrupulous stare. “How good of a dancer are you?”

“Excuse me,” Marian laughed, an edge to the sound. “I don’t really have the patience to deal with rudeness right now. As I’m sure you noticed, I’m not in the best mood. Please don’t waste my time with leading questions.”

The man’s mouth opened a little in surprise, eyes widening enough for Marian to see the whites, stark against the green of his irises. “I apologize.”

“Thank you.”

“Let me try again,” he persisted, uncrossing his arms just as Marian considered brushing past him. “Your…friend told me you are a teacher. A dance teacher.”

“It pays my rent.”

“She seems to hold your skills in high regard.”

Marian could feel her cheeks reddening and glanced past his face to peer at Isabela. A vision in white sundress and strappy sandals, she was already chatting with some twenty-something girl with heels too high. The smile on her face was attentive, encouraging, and slightly promising, and Marian couldn’t look too long without feeling bitter. She looked away quickly and continued listening to the man drone on.

“I am seeking some sort of instructor,” he was saying. “I don’t need any help with technique, which shouldn’t be a problem, since you do not dance ballet. I need someone who can teach me the thought process behind dance, the…feelings that go into it. Can you help?”

Marian could only imagine how many innuendos and winks with which Isabela had provided him after hearing this explanation. It was maybe to her credit that she herself didn’t leap on any of the opportunities he’d given her.

“I don’t have a business card,” she said.

“That’s fine. I remember the location of your studio well.”

“I don’t know if I can help, Mr…?”

“I am called Fenris.” She waited for a last name, but there was a stubborn line to his jaw and, when he didn’t continue, she pressed on.

“I don’t know, Fenris. You can set up a private lesson with me if you call the studio’s receptionist, but private lessons are more expensive—“

“That’s not a problem.”

“—and I don’t even know if I can help you with your…” She pressed her lips together, deliberating on word choice. “Your problem. That’s something that comes from within.”

“Dance can be taught. This is dance.”

Marian sighed, a very tiny sigh that she hoped would go unnoticed. Well, if he was just going to throw money her way, she didn’t care. “Fine. It’s seventy sovereigns per private lesson.” She unzipped the gym bag at her shoulder and rifled around for a few seconds before pulling out the month’s schedule. “Phone number’s at the bottom of the page. We’re open ten to six every week, but check the schedule to see when a good time for you would be.”

Fenris took the paper gingerly, folded it into a square without a glance, and slipped it into the back pocket of his black jeans. “Thank you, Marian.”

“Everyone calls me Hawke.”

He nodded. “I will call tomorrow morning.”

Isabela slipped out of the bar, arm in arm with High Heels. Marian watched them go with eyes like slits, trying not to draw the other woman’s attention with her fierce gaze. “You do that,” she answered, and left without another word, pushing past Varric and out the back door.

* * *

 

Fenris didn’t go back to the flat that night until very, very late. He stayed at the Hanged Man ordering drink after drink. At a certain point, Varric tried striking up a conversation with the man who was ordering some of his nicer liquor, but Fenris wasn’t much in the mood for conversation, so the shorter man left him in peace after a couple of topic changes, only occasionally nodding at him when their eyes met. It was a companionable silence in the dull roar of the bar, and Fenris needed that sort of companionship at the moment.

Isabela had been pleasant to speak to, even with the way she undressed him with her eyes, but after the borderline hostile conversation with Hawke, he was a little talked out and not in the mood for further flirtation from other bar denizens. He could feel the paper schedule burning in his back pocket, but he didn’t want to try and make sense of the squiggles on the page until he was alone in his small room, with no one to disturb him due to the late hour. Varric would probably be willing to explain the schedule to him, but given that he seemed to be close enough with Hawke to yell at her in his bar, Fenris wasn’t quite sure he was ready to confide in him.

Eventually, even the Hanged Man had to close for the night, and Fenris was left alone in the city streets. He took the subway back to Hightown, and there was something comforting in the stale smell of train seats and thick silence of the night broken only by the _chunk-chunk_ of the subway car clicking on its metal path. He took the stairs up to the flat once he arrived and opened the door as quietly as he could manage. Quiet greeted him, to his great relief. He sneaked into his room and pushed the door closed gently, careful not to let the loud _click_ of the lock echo through the hallway. He never knew what would wake Hadriana next door and what wouldn’t, but it was better to be safe.

Despite his tipsy fatigue, sleep evaded him. He didn’t _want_ to take private lessons from Hawke. He didn’t _want_ to make his dancing improve enough to get better roles. But no one had ever cared what he _wanted_. If getting the role at Ballet Magisterium would get Danarius off his back for a few months, it was worth it. He definitely hadn’t sought Hawke out so that he could take pride in his work, that was certain.

 Fenris didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have at some point, because the beeping of his alarm clock informed him that it had become eight in the morning. He dressed quickly, grogginess ignored, throwing his practice shoes, dance belt, extra shirt and water bottle into a gym bag. He was almost out the door before he remembered his street clothes from the previous night lying haphazardly on the floor and put them in the hamper, removing the paper schedule from the back pocket as he did so. No use in further angering Hadriana with an untidy room, especially considering last evening.

Danarius barely gave him a second look as Fenris passed through the dining room and into the kitchen, but Hadriana was distinctly peeved when he accidentally brushed against her in his search for a quick breakfast.

“Watch yourself,” she snapped, and he stepped back obligingly. “I don’t remember you coming home last night,” she continued in the same irritated tone as he dumped the peel from a banana in the trash compactor.

“I came home later in the evening.”

“More like earlier in the morning, I bet,” she sneered. “Out with a whore?”

Fenris, on the defensive from her sudden vulgarity, leaned back like she’d spat on him. Without thinking better of it, he answered, “I was preparing to better my technique.”

“Oh, I bet.”

“I need to get a role in _Swan Lake_ ,” he responded stiffly. “I was doing research.” Dim warning bells in the forefront of his mind alerted him against revealing more information than this, but the temptation was foolishly strong. While the last thing he needed was Hadriana telling Danarius that he was spending his allowance on call girls, the second-to-last thing he needed was Hadriana telling Danarius he was out at random bars running into contemporary dancers. It was almost as bad.

Hadriana made some sort of ungentlemanly scoff and carried two plates into the dining room, leaving Fenris to his breakfast in peace. He ate quickly and filled his water bottle as speedily as he could manage, making a hasty retreat from the apartment after giving his farewells to Danarius.

Danarius expected him to be heading to practice—and he was—but he also didn’t need to know where Fenris was practicing. After spending the next two hours in his practice room at Danarius’s studio alternatively warming up and staring into space, he walked a few blocks in a different direction from the studio before he found what he was looking for: an ancient payphone.

He rummaged around in his gym bag for the folded piece of paper. With shaking hands he smoothed out the creases and stared at the splatters of black ink on the page. He scanned it for something familiar—a sequence of numbers—but this seemed to be Hawke’s personal copy, with her handwritten notes scrawled all over, little arrows pointing to other indecipherable sentences.

But there, at the bottom of the page, was something he did recognize: numbers. Numbers, not words, and the parentheses around the first three numbers alerted him to the fact that it was a phone number. He thrust his hand into his pocket and fished around for enough coppers to pay for the call, and as the coins clattered down the coin chute and the dial tone turned to ringing, Fenris could taste self-loathing in his mouth.

Someone picked up. “Studio Amell.” It sounded like the teenager from the other day.

“I’d like to make an appointment for a private lesson,” Fenris said into the speaker. He cast a paranoid glance around for anyone from his own studio, but a sea of stranger’s faces moved past him in the rush-hour crowd, no one familiar jumping out at him.

“Sure! When were you thinking?”

“Today, if possible,” he said, huddling closer into the phone alcove.

“Um…let’s see. We don’t have too many openings. Were you looking for jazz or contemporary?”

“I spoke with Marian Hawke about lessons.”

“Oh, okay,” the girl chirped, sounding relieved. “So you’ve been here before?” Fenris didn’t answer, listening to the shuffling of papers. “Marian has only one opening today, at eleven AM. It’s a little early, is that okay?”

“That’s fine.”

“Name?”

“Fenris.”

“Last name?”

He hesitated, then said, “See you at eleven,” and waited for her response.

“Um, okay, see you at eleven. Can I have your—“

He hung up, hating himself for appearing so mysterious. What should be important was that he could pay. Hopefully that would be enough. He’d never had to make appointments for himself before, and he was surprised by how loudly his heart was pounding after only one phone call.

For now, however, he might as well head over to the studio that had replaced his mother’s apartment complex.

* * *

 

“Oh, Marian, you have a private lesson at eleven.”

Marian hung up her gym bag in her locker and turned to face the doorway that Brielle was now standing in. “Let me guess: Fenris?”

Brielle blinked, obviously put off by Marian’s hard edge to her tone. “Yeah, he said he spoke to you about it.”

“He did. Thanks, Brielle.”

Still Brielle lingered. “Is something wrong?”

Marian sighed. “No, I just think it’s going to be a waste of time. Don’t worry about it. Send the kids in, okay?”

She taught the group lesson a little distractedly, but the young dancers didn’t seem to notice. Last night, she’d called Carver and gotten voice mail—third time in a row this week. She usually didn’t try to contact him often, since he seemed to think they had some sort of weird sibling rivalry, but last night had been lonely with Gamlen whining about the rent and Isabela leaving no texts to tell her that she’d gotten home safely. Calling Carver had been dumb—would probably piss him off—and leaving a message asking him when he was free had been dumber—would definitely piss him off—and now the prickly Fenris was expecting a private lesson in who knew what first thing in the morning. It was with regret and trepidation that she waved goodbye to her morning students.

Fenris was waiting in the lobby when she returned, properly freshened up. He was already in practice gear, his ankles crossed in the plastic chair and his hands neatly folded on top of his thighs. His head was tilted against the back of the chair, white hair a mess against the cheap plastic, but he slowly sat up when he heard the door close.

“Hi, Fenris,”

“Hawke,” he nodded back as he languidly rose from his chair. Marian was struck by the grace with which he moved; she considered herself equally graceful when she danced, but definitely not in casual movement. She tried not to glare at him; it wasn’t his fault, and friendliness wouldn’t hurt.

“Come on back. There’s a water fountain in the hall if you need it.”

They walked to the studio in uncomfortable silence. The hallway of the tiny building seemed to elongate as they passed the water fountain on their way to Studio #2. When they finally reached the door, the _click_ of the door handle sounded very loud.

She didn’t feel the need to instruct Fenris on proper stretching procedure, and the thought of even instructing him on anything made discomfort settle deeply in the pit of her stomach. If he was uncomfortable, he showed no sign of it, only strapping on his shoes with practiced speed and stepping in the dish of resin a few times. They stretched separately, without words, and when they were finished, Marian hooked up her tiny stereo to the room’s sound system.

“How do you want to do this?” she asked, the sound of her voice echoing throughout the room relaxing her nerves a bit.

“Fair question,” Fenris replied, tapping his foot as he looked into a corner of the room, obviously thinking it over. “Shall I do some routine that I’m used to? Then maybe you’ll be able to see what the problem is.”

Marian nodded. “That seems fair. I don’t know anything about ballet, though.”

“That’s fine. Dancing is dancing.”

No, not quite, she couldn’t help but think, but whatever, really. “Any requests?”

“Swan Lake, third act, Siegfried’s solo.”

More silence. “I’m not sure I can get that specific,” she answered, tucking a stray piece of short black hair behind her ear. “I’m not familiar with ballets.”

Fenris glanced at the shelf full of CDs. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

Fenris strode over to the wall of CDs, folding his hands behind his back as he glanced through them, as if he were afraid to touch any of them. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and pulled a CD Marian had never seen before from the far right of the top shelf. He flipped it around to show her, a faint, satisfied smile playing at the edges of his lips. The smile surprised Marian so much that she didn’t even register the cover of the CD—she’d assumed his frown was a constant feature engraved into the skin on his face. Seeing him smile so effortlessly, even though it was small, put her off guard.

Before she knew it, violins were whispering through the speakers. Fenris made no movement, waiting for his cue. She stepped back in front of the mirror to give him space. When he heard the music pick up at the right moment, he began, and Marian was transfixed.

When the violins chirped high notes, he leapt into the air, his legs hyperextending, the muscles outlined perfectly beneath his tights. As the music swelled and swooped, his pirouettes were crisp, precise and flawlessly executed. His arms rose and fell with each crescendo and decrescendo, his sense of beat and tempo obvious.

It was all very, very, properly done, but despite how evident his skill was, despite the grace and simultaneous power behind each of his movements, despite the precision and energy and talent, Marian would never have called the dance beautiful.

Siegfried’s solo lasted only a minute or so, and as the next piece began, Fenris relaxed and stopped dancing. Marian pressed the power button on her remote and clasped her hands together. The ballet dancer waited expectantly.

“I think you know how talented you are,” she told him.

“I do. I’ve worked hard.”

“I think you also know that there’s nothing in the way you move that can be called art,” she said, courageous in the face of his ignorance.

Fenris didn’t even flinch. “I believe I told you that dancing is not art.”

“And that’s the problem. You don’t have any emotion, passion, even feeling—whatever you want to call it.” Fenris only looked at her, patient, waiting for instruction, some recipe for success to follow. Any irritation she had ever felt towards him and was holding onto ebbed away. He really, truly, simply didn’t understand.

“What are your hobbies, Fenris?

The sudden change of topic seemed to throw him off guard. “My _hobbies_ ,” he repeated, flabbergasted.

“What do you _like_? What do you find beautiful? What do you look at and think, ‘Man, I sure like the way this thing makes me feel?’” Her hands were sweating. She rarely taught adults, didn’t know how to talk to them from a teacher’s perspective without sounding patronizing. The last thing she wanted to do was set him on the defensive, make him leave; on the other hand, she didn’t know why she found his problem so annoying and intriguing.

But Fenris didn’t look offended. Instead, he looked confused. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Do you like stargazing? Do you read ancient philosophical treaties that really make you think? Is there something that makes you feel _alive_?”

“What does this have to do with dancing?” Fenris asked, confusion giving way to impatience.

“Everything has to do with dancing. That’s what makes it _dancing_ and not just flinging yourself in random ways, or on the other end of the extreme, following a routine someone taught you exactly how they taught you to do it. Life is a reflection of us. We give life _meaning_. And that’s what we’re expressing when we dance.”

* * *

 

Hawke’s eyes were shining with enthusiasm, her hands gesturing wildly, a smile on her face. Everything about her was animated, but Fenris had the distinct impression that there was something he was still missing.

“Clearly I’m not understanding,” he said, willing himself to remain patient. “If this is a private lesson, instruct me. There must be some way I can understand.”

Hawke chewed her lip, considering. “That’s the thing. Contemporary dance, which is what I teach, is sort of hard to pin down, so maybe it doesn’t apply to ballet. But I think the same principles apply. You’re thinking more with your intellectual brain than with your body, and that’s what’s important, because your body is the one doing all the dancing.”

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“What if we tried something different?” Hawke suggested. “Something you’ve never tried before. What if you try dancing something other than ballet?”

Fenris shrugged. “I don’t see the merit, but I don’t see the harm, either.”

“Well, you seem to think all dancing is the same, so what does it matter anyway?”

“Fine.” Fenris stretched, hooking his left arm around his right and pulling to the side, then switching. “Teach me this ‘contemporary dance.’”

First, she had him walk around the room. “Think about the way you naturally move. Think about your weight, about gravity pushing down on you, and your relationship with it. Pretend you’re walking for the first time.”

He walked. For the first few seconds, he gave a passable effort to think about what she suggested, but before long, apathy reigned supreme. Hawke seemed to notice, and called an end to the exercise after a minute.

“I know this is different for you, but try and give it a shot. If you don’t like the baby steps, that’s fine, but you need to start somewhere.”

“I’m a professional ballet dancer who’s been on stage more times than I have years,” Fenris scoffed, anger flashing through his gut. “I’m past the point of ‘starting somewhere.’”

Hawke had no sympathy for him. “We agreed you’d do something you’ve never done before. And if you’re past the point of beginning, I wonder why your dancing isn’t at the level you’d like?”

“I have no level _I_ would like,” Fenris refuted. “I have no preference.” He pressed his lips together before he dared elaborate, and while Hawke looked further flummoxed, she didn’t comment.

“Fine. If you came to me seeking improvement, at least give it a shot. I know you didn’t like the walking, but at least think about the concepts, okay? How are you moving in a way that feels natural to you, intuitive to you? What are you dancing with?”

“I don’t understand. Again.” He shifted in place and crossed his arms. “I am dancing _alone_.”

“You may be dancing by yourself, but you’re dancing in relation to things,” Hawke explained. “I’m going to put on music, and I want you to think about your relationship to this room and to yourself. Move only when you’re ready, when you feel something.” She walked over to the CD shelf and began browsing, flicking aside some cases and pulling out others. “Contemporary dance is like a very literal reminder that dance is _movement_. And that movement happens through our bodies and in the environment. Try thinking about that when you start to move, okay?” After selecting a CD that she seemed to like the best, Hawke slid it into the CD slot and pressed the power button on her remote again.

Immediately, Fenris felt something, something in his chest. The bassline was powerful, chugging along steadily and thrumming through his sternum. It wasn’t any music he’d ever heard before. Some sort of wind instrument played over the bassline, a strange combination of airy whispers and deep thickness. He waited obediently, not wanting to move until he’d thought about it. After a moment or two, however, the bass proved too compelling. He remembered Hawke’s insistence that he not overthink, but he couldn’t help it. He saw the routines in his mind’s eye even with the unfamiliar music.

Hawke had said he needed to feel something, and what he was feeling wasn’t quite unstructured, but certainly freer than the rigidity of ballet. He threw his arm out as the drums picked up, was surprised when it fell in with the beat. Uncertainly, he pointed his right foot, sliding it across the floor. He moved at random, pushing different body parts in different directions, experimenting with the sensations.

It was all completely unfamiliar. No one was giving him a routine. No one was correcting his posture. Hawke leaned against the mirror, surveying the scene, but he ignored her for the most part. Losing confidence with each sashay across the floor but gaining momentum in his experimentation, he threw himself into the exercise, hearing electric violin join the mix in an off-kilter sort of way.

He wasn’t doing it right. He wasn’t doing any of it right. It didn’t even feel particularly good. It was unstructured, unbalanced, his emotions running rampant with neither rhyme nor reason, but he couldn’t stop once he’d started. The music reached a crescendo, snare drum drilling all of a sudden into his brain, the strangest sensation in his ears and chest he’d ever felt, and he pirouetted and pliéd whenever he felt like it, and damn it all if it didn’t terrify him.

The music faded away in a gentle decrescendo, gentle enough that he heard it coming. Still, the end of the song startled him, leaving him in some strange form of arabesque that didn’t really make sense. When the silence echoed in the studio around him, he quickly righted himself and pushed himself back into a slouch.

Daring to meet Hawke’s gaze, Fenris found in them what he felt about his performance.

 _That was utterly terrible_.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Pas d'action: Andantino quasi moderato

The lesson, evidently, had been a waste of time.

Hawke’s excuses had fallen on deaf ears as Fenris had handed over the bundles of cash needed to pay for her time to Brielle. He couldn’t even remember anything she’d said, he’d been so…what? Angry? Embarrassed? Ashamed?

Fenris didn’t know why the lesson had gotten to him. He’d returned to practice at Danarius’s studio, going through his routines mechanically, but maybe “mechanically” was how he’d always danced. Now that someone other than Danarius, other than Hadriana, had pointed it out to him, he was noticing every stiff gesture, every muscle that felt no burn.

Maybe Hadriana was right, and he wasn’t pushing himself enough. But what was the point in working hard at something he hated, something for which he had no _drive_?

Danarius’s face loomed in the back of his mind, and he winced. The tattoo artist ignored his movement and continued drilling along his ribs. It hurt to be sure, and he tried focusing on the pinprick burns as her needle moved along his torso, instead of on the embarrassment—now that he named it, it felt worse—from yesterday. He tried to remain motionless throughout the procedure, but Fenris could tell both he and his tattoo artist were relieved when it was over. She gave him instructions, he paid and tipped, and he headed outside.

He’d been blowing too much money recently; as much as his ribs itched, he couldn’t afford to hail a cab. He’d done a combination of metro and walking to get here, so it wasn’t so far that he couldn’t metro-and-walk back to the flat, but—

“Hey, Fenris!”

Fenris flinched as someone stepped into his peripherals. “Hawke,” he said without inflection.

Hawke’s smile dimmed a watt, but to her credit, she kept it plastered on her face. “I’m surprised to run into you here. Strange coincidence, right?”

Indeed. “Is there something I can help you with?” he asked, beginning to walk along the sidewalk. Fellow pedestrians were sidestepping the two of them even in the two seconds they’d paused, and he was starting to feel claustrophobic.

She fell into step beside him. “Nothing, really. Are you headed to the Hanged Man?”

“The—“ Oh, right. The bar he’d chosen at random what felt like ages ago, hoping Hadriana wouldn’t find him. “Are you?”

Now she brightened. The wind blew her short black hair away from her face, and the effect was one of blissful, worry-free cheer. A pang of envious bitterness thudded in Fenris’s chest. “Yeah, actually. I think I’m gonna start paying Varric back my debt so I can—so I can hang out there again.” She brushed her hair back behind her ear and looked him over as they walked aimlessly. “Looks like you’re headed that way, too. Mind if I tag along?”

Not so aimless walking after all. Well, that’s what he got for following Hawke’s lead. “I really shouldn’t,” he said, not as reluctantly as was polite.

Hawke quirked an eyebrow understandingly. “Girlfriend waiting for you back home?”

Fenris’s mind helpfully conjured up an image of Hadriana unbidden, and his lip curled. “No.”

Hawke started a little at the venom in his voice, but he said nothing else. “All right,” she said, stopping at a familiar door. “I hope to see you around, Fenris. Maybe at the studio—“

“You said I was terrible,” he snapped, the embarrassment supplying more bite to his bark than maybe necessary.

Hawke blinked slowly. “I didn’t say anything like that.”

One particularly impatient pedestrian bumped shoulders with Fenris, and he felt the impact shudder all the way down his tender ribs. Pain prevented him from responding quickly, and Hawke frowned at his grimace.

“You all right?”

“It’s the same thing,” he said through gritted teeth. “My dancing, my talents, whatever you wish to call it. They were obviously terrible to you, and so there is no reason for me to return to your studio.” If he weren’t certain marching away in a huff would cause him to keel over, he would’ve left already.

“Fenris, that’s why you _go_ to a studio. You go to learn. We can both learn things from each other, I bet.”

“Oh my,” a new voice piped up, interrupting whatever response Fenris’s brain planned on formulating. Isabela sauntered out of the horde of pedestrians and slung an arm over Hawke’s shoulders. “Flirting without me feeding you lines? I’ve been replaced!”

Hawke’s ears turned a deeper shade of pink with each millisecond Isabela spent running her fingers up and down her arm. “We weren’t—I wasn’t—“ She finally turned away from Isabela’s face, away from Fenris’s stare. “You’re not _replaced_ ,” she finally managed.

“Of course not, kitten,” Isabela drawled, gracing Fenris with a slow wink. “Are you drinking with us tonight, Fen?”

Something inside him twitched at the nickname, but he wasn’t sure if he found it displeasing. “No, thank you,” he said levelly. “Good evening.” And, muscles finally quitting their protests save a few twinges, he walked to the nearest metro stop.

* * *

 

“Look, two cats dragging each other in,” Varric called from where he was wiping the counter. The bar was mostly empty, with only a couple of familiar faces clustered in a corner. The faces looked up as Varric called attention to the newcomers, and Isabela gave a cheery wave from over Marian’s shoulder.

“Varric, I have a present for you,” Marian said, shrugging off Isabela as they approached.

“Better not be Isabela; I hope you kept the receipt.”

“She can’t afford me, Varric!”

Varric, at least, was a good enough friend to ignore her, even as Marian blushed. “What d’ya have for me, Hawke?”

Marian reached into her gym bag and shuffled CDs and dirty clothes around. “Give me a second.”

“Take your time.”

She could hear Isabela and the others speaking in low tones, but judging by the company present, she doubted the volume would stay that way for long. Finally, she pulled out her wallet clip and, making sure Varric was looking, unfolded two ten-sovereign marks. She handed them to him, and he gaped.

“Are you actually—“

“I’m starting to pay you back, Varric,” Marian said with a crooked, embarrassed smile. “You were right. I’ve been mooching off you far too long. I know it’s not everything, but I figured it’s easier to pay you back a little at a time.”

Varric took one of the marks from her outstretched fingers and shook his head when she wiggled the other at him. “It’s easier a little at a time, you said. Just…do it baby-steps-like.”

Marian bit her lip to keep the grateful smile from splitting her face in two. Varric looked away at her obvious emotion, running a hand through his hair uncomfortably. “Thanks, Varric.”

“No prob. I think the others are waiting for you.”

“Varric!” Isabela yelled as Marian made her way over to her friends. “Join us for a hand tonight!”

“Maybe when I’m not on the clock.”

Marian seated herself in the grubby armchair Anders beckoned her over to and Isabela dealt her in.

“Good to see you guys. It’s been a while,” she said as everyone scooped up respective hands. Aveline smiled at her.

“Not me,” Isabela said absently, moving one card over in her hand.

“Well, it’s not good to see you.”

“Anyway,” Aveline spoke over them, “it’s good to see you, too, Hawke. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.”

“I’m not,” Anders replied. The group looked at him, and he shrugged. “It’s good we’ve been busy. Things are finally picking up in the art scene of this hellhole of a city.”

Aveline looked like she had something she wanted to add, but Isabela cut her off. “Maker, would you lighten up? It’s a good thing that you lot are in business, right? No need to trash the hellhole about it.”

“What are we playing for?” Marian asked before Anders could begin one of his lectures. She watched his shoulders visibly relax.

“Nothing; little Aveline is playing with us tonight,” Isabela said, sounding bored.

“So?”

“She’s moving up in the world. Tell her, Aveline.”

Aveline tried to look embarrassed, but the way she straightened up in her seat defeated the attempt. “I talked to my boss. I leave the club next week.”

“Why?” Anders, who had obviously heard this news already, nudged Marian to tell her to begin the round.

“Oh, boo,” Isabela complained. “It’s just like you to start off all _boring_. Cut to the chase.”

“I’m building suspense,” Aveline snapped, sinking back into a slouch once more. “May I continue?”

“Donnic doesn’t seem the type to enjoy… _suspense_.”

“Shut up,” the other three said in unison, putting a halt to the game. The hostility varied from person to person, but the point was made. Isabela mimed zipping her lips, though Marian doubted that would last long.

“Anyway,” Aveline said after taking a calming breath. “Donnic put a good word in for me, I suppose. Once I finish training, I’ll be a badge-carrying officer.”

“Oh, Aveline, you know it was one-hundred percent you that got you the job,” Marian said with a smile that quickly disappeared after Anders nudged her again. “I _know_ , you play so _quickly_ —Aveline, that’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Hawke.”

“Sure you won’t miss strong-arming drunken revelers out of your club?” Isabela smirked. She was bleeding her hand a bit; Marian noticed several shoddy cards hiding some other card. Knowing Isabela, it was going to be unpleasant. Isabela caught her eye and winked so quickly Marian was sure no one else saw. She looked away.

“It was never _my_ club,” Aveline grumbled. “I’m good at what I do, that’s all. Jeven has always been clear that it’s _his_ club and the loss of one mannish bouncer won’t ruin him.”

Marian smiled at her. “Well, he knows shite. It probably _will_ ruin him and he doesn’t know what he’s losing.”

“Jeven can rot. I’ll be happy to be an officer. Start training next week.”

“You said so already,” Isabela complained, throwing her cards face-down in an exasperated manner. “Are we going to play or what? This game is taking longer than—“

“I wanted to wager,” Marian interrupted. “I still don’t get why we can’t—“

“Isabela’s _joking_ ,” Anders said with a sigh. “Maker, Hawke; she was just saying that because Aveline’s going to be a _cop_ —“

“You do take everything too seriously,” Aveline cut in, sipping a whiskey sour. “No offense, Hawke.”

Marian put her face in her hands and muffled her scream of frustration.

* * *

 

As soon as he opened the door of the flat, Hadriana's voice was upon him.

“You left the studio in an awful hurry today,” she called from where she was sprawled on the sofa in the living room. Fenris flicked his eyes her way from where he stood in the foyer and saw she was strapping on one of her leg braces. The vulnerable position didn’t detract from the steel in her voice, however.

“I stayed my allotted time.” He edged towards the adjoining hallway where his room, his escape lay, but Hadriana pushed herself off the couch and began taking slow, imperious strides towards him. Her cold blue eyes pierced him, rooting him to the floor, as she drew nearer and nearer.

“Where did you run off to?”

Something was different. Danarius had to be out, or otherwise unavailable. Not that he would have stopped Hadriana from being particularly unpleasant, maybe, but she never would have let her decorum drop were he nearby.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Fenris stated, crossing his arms. The pressure on his ribs, however, elicited a wince that he couldn’t manage to quite hide.

“Did you injure yourself?” A flicker of concern passed over her face. He remained silent. “Fenris, don’t stand there like a dumb ox. I asked you if you injured yourself. Speak up.”

“Don’t you have your leg brace to attend to?” Fenris turned around and began taking quick steps in the direction of his room, but Hadriana caught him by the edge of his t-shirt and tugged it up. She sucked air through her teeth in a disapproving hiss.

“What the _fuck_ did you do?”

“Go away, Hadriana.”

She snapped the t-shirt back in place and pushed his shoulders so that he turned and stumbled towards her. “Those better not be permanent.”

“Are you as stupid as you look?” he snarled, rearranging his shirt so that it fit properly once more. A dangerous question, followed by an even more dangerous proclamation. His anger was getting the better of him. “Of course they’re permanent.”

“ _You’re_ stupid. Maker, do I really have to go into the countless reasons why this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done?”

“No, you don’t. Good evening.” He tried not to run to his room, tried to keep a reasonable speed, but he wasn’t sure how quickly she’d follow. To his surprise, she didn’t.

“Fenris! You ingrate!” she called after him. “Wait until Danarius hears about this!”

He closed the door—without slamming it—and tried to calm his breathing.

* * *

 

Gamlen was asleep by the time Marian returned home. She could hear whiskey-induced snores rumbling from his room and felt her tense muscles relax at the sound. The loss of Carver had hit her uncle harder than she'd expected, though maybe she should've seen it coming: with Marian out of the house both days and nights, Bethany in school, and Mother dead, he was spending more and more time alone. She couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a client for a big repair, something to help pay the rent.

She tossed her gym bag onto her bed and followed its trajectory, sinking onto the edge of the comforter with a sigh. The shiny new cell phone whose number Carver had left with Varric never seemed to be picked up by its owner, and even if she _was_ able to reach her surly younger brother somehow, she severely doubted he'd come home to cheer up the uncle he'd fought with constantly since moving to this city. Tonight had been fun, a distraction with some of her friends, bickering boatload that they were, but being back in her shabby flat reminded her of the harshness of reality.

What she wanted, what she _really_ wanted to do was dance some of these irritating, mopey emotions away, but with Gamlen asleep and a noise complaint already filed against her recently, there was no way that was happening.

Marian eyed the black digital clock on her bedside table--one in the morning. This city wasn't kind to ordinary folk wandering about after dark. It would be a really idiotic idea to head to the studio now, all sorts of stupid.

She stretched and heard her shoulders crack in pleasure. While bed didn't sound great, she was sure in the morning, she'd appreciate--

Gamlen's thundering snore from across the hall shattered her train of thought. Without thinking further on how _dumb_ an idea it was, she grabbed her gym bag once more and made for the studio.

* * *

 

If Hadriana's revenge was to be anticipation, it was her most clever punishment yet. Danarius came home, Fenris reluctantly emerged from his room to greet him, and Hadriana stayed silent, a shit-eating smile on her face. Dinner had proved uneventful, with Hadriana only speaking to Fenris to remind him of his upcoming callbacks. By the time dinner ended and the table needed clearing, Fenris's black shirt was soaked with sweat on the back, droplets trickling like little stinging insects down his tattooed ribs. Danarius bade them both a good night, Hadriana followed suit, and Fenris was left alone to panic.

Why? Why, why, why had she waited? There was no mocking smile. There were no dropped hints. There were no leading questions. It was too dangerous to hope she'd changed her mind. Perhaps that was what she was waiting for; Hadriana seemed to have a sixth sense for when he was at his most vulnerable, so maybe she was waiting for that moment to pounce.   
  
She'd never exactly been pleasant to Fenris, even when Danarius first took him in as a child, but the years since her injury had worsened her temperament. Fenris had certainly stolen her literal spotlight, but just because she was cast off the stage didn't mean she'd let anyone forget about her. She was probably the most active member of the elitist community over which Danarius reigned. Hadriana could be charming as needed, and so had no shortage of acquaintances through which she could reach at least a little of the dance world, but it seemed to drain her; after each social gathering, when they would return to the flat as a trio, she would take out all her pent-up exasperation on Fenris. Trivial things, really, mostly when Danarius was not present, but there had been the occasional sugary-sweet flirtations and promises that were more disturbing than the petty insults and vengeances.  Fenris had enough to deal with Danarius's own less subtle comments; trying to keep two superiors and his dignity in their proper places yielded exhaustion of its own.

Alone in his room, Fenris took a shaky breath as Hadriana's footsteps clicked from the bathroom past his door, paused for a moment, and then journeyed to her own down the hall. He heard the gentle thud as she closed her door, followed by freeing silence. The red numbers on his alarm clock glowed ominously on the nightstand, blinking into the hours past midnight.

He probably didn't _need_ a drink, only wanted one, but what he did need to do was get out. As long as he was back before four and managed to get a couple hours of sleep, there shouldn't be a problem. There _shouldn't_ be a problem, but there always managed to be one.

"I'm going out," he muttered, clutching his head, pulling lightly at his hair. "I'm going to go out. I'm going to leave."

His ribs hurt.

"Get up," he snarled at himself, angry at the anxiety suddenly freezing his bones. "Get up." His legs tensed, then stood. He reached for his gym bag and slung it over his shoulder, too anxious to only grab keys and his wallet.

The door to his room closed behind him, then the door to the apartment. Heart pounding at the tiny act of rebellion, certain one of his demons would come roaring out of the building after him, he started walking, unsure of where he was going.

Yeah. He needed a drink like he needed a hole in the head.

* * *

 

His mother’s old apartment complex had a light on.

At first, when he’d seen the warm glow from a block back, he hadn’t been too surprised. It had been hard to tell which building was which, since the old rickety building he was used to had been torn down. The light brightening the street now came from a completely different storefront from his memories, and it only took him a few moments to realize it was the dance studio.

Fenris stepped closer to the window pane, peering through it to the waiting room. He could faintly hear bass drum, but there was no sign of anyone, not even a Hawke. No gym bag, no nothing. He turned around to make sure the streets behind him were still deserted—could it be a break-in? There was no van or other vehicle to hint at such, and besides, he doubted there was enough to steal from the dance studio.

A door from inside the studio creaked, and the bass drum intensified for a moment. Fenris’s head whipped back to the window to meet the surprised gaze of Hawke. She was frozen in place, the door to the hallway of rooms half-open behind her, a water bottle dripping in her left hand. Finally, after an awkward moment of intense staring, she mouthed his name, and he could almost hear the shock in it.

He nodded, then gestured towards the door, unsure of what he was doing. She looked hard at him for another moment, then nodded back. It seemed like an eternity as she dodged the coffee table and folding chairs and unlatched the lock. He left the window and opened the door, the warmth inside a pleasant contrast to the just-beginning crispness of fall and the cool night air.

“Something I can do for you?” Upon closer inspection, a sheen of sweat glimmered along Hawke’s forehead.

“I…” Fenris stared for a moment, unable to find his words in embarrassment. “Were you dancing?”

“Uh, yeah. But—“

“Can I join you?” When she only looked more uncertain, he stumbled over his sentences in an effort to explain. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I was walking and found myself here—the lights were on, I thought someone was breaking in, I—Hawke,” he said self-consciously when he saw a little smile—one at his expense—curling the sides of her lips, “it is very late, I’m not thinking clearly, and I don’t particularly want to return home.”

“I thought you hated dancing,” Hawke replied, wiping the smile from her face, though her blue eyes sparkled a little.

“I—I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” he said after an embarrassed pause. How was he to explain when he was already feeling so vulnerable? She didn’t exactly invite heart-to-hearts, not that he wanted to have one anyway.

“No, you know what?” Hawke interrupted his stammering. “Come on, why not? Maybe you can teach me something about ballet. Unlike you, I actually felt like dancing tonight, so maybe I should do something different.”

“I didn’t come here to _teach_ ,” Fenris grumbled even as his shoulders grew less tense.

“Then what did you come here for?”

He turned his head to the side, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. Hawke waited. “This neighborhood is where I grew up. It’s…comforting.”

Another pause. “I’m glad it’s a good place for you,” she said awkwardly, though sincerely.

“Thank you,” he replied.

“Shall we begin?” she offered before another uncomfortable silence could reign.

“Yes, let’s.”

* * *

 

Marian swung her arms across each other as they walked to her practice room. The silence between them was less heavy than it had been earlier; she felt more at ease, perhaps because of the strange hour and their strange behavior, or for whatever reason. Her water bottle dribbled little dots of water on the floor, a trail for them to follow back into nighttime when they would finish. She opened the door and went in first, hearing Fenris slowly follow.

The lights in the practice room felt warmer, a little different at this hour, like a room suspended in time. Marian took a deep breath of air that smelled a little of clean sweat. It was good that she’d come tonight, though she couldn’t say the same as of yet for her taciturn companion.

“What would you like me to play?” she asked him now, placing her water bottle on the shelf with her CDs while she waited for the man to remove his shoes.

Fenris started out of whatever he was thinking about. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Any music you like?”

This question seemed to startle him even more. She smiled at his wide eyes. “I forgot, you don’t like dancing. Here, I’ll pick something if you tell me what sort of warm-ups you’d like to go for.”

His eyes glanced away from her face, though a small smile graced his lips. “I shouldn’t dance today.”

She’d been flicking CD cases as an excuse for something to do with her hands, but she paused when she heard this admission. “What?”

“I got work done on a tattoo. Ribs. I shouldn’t exercise for a while.” The confession lit up his face with a strange sort of secretive glee. “But you said I can teach, so I’ll teach. You can warm up if you haven’t already.”

“Coulda mentioned that sooner.”

“I wasn’t thinking very hard about it.” Still, that same quiet delight painted his features in a way that made the angles of his cheeks and nose less severe, less downtrodden way.

“Okay, fine,” Marian offered an equally tiny, friendly smile in exchange. “Still doesn’t help me pick out music. Do you have an idea for the lesson, since I’ve already warmed up?”

Fenris flexed his bare feet on the wooden floor as he considered. “You seem to like doing things differently,” he began.

“I do.”

“I know of an exercise for ballet dancers,” he said, the contentedness from earlier gone from his face. “It’s good for those who have been injured, but I confess I’ve been thinking about what you said last time. About walking around the room.”

A little bubble of pleasure wiggled inside Marian’s stomach. Really, now? She’d actually made an impact?

“So now it’s not me who gets to feel the fool by learning something different…I’ll try and teach ballet exercises that we do sitting on the floor or lying down.”

“So we’ll need something a little less upbeat, right?” Fenris shrugged at her question, but another smile, this one prideful, threatened the corners of his lips.

“That’s up to you, but I think you’ll find it energetic enough.”

* * *

 

She’d put on one of her favorite electronica CDs that Aveline had burned for her. It was a DJ that had played at the club one time that her friend had thought she’d liked, and Aveline was rarely wrong when it came to gifts regarding people with whom she had no romantic attachment.

To Marian’s surprise, the exercises were just as strenuous as Fenris had warned her, and so the music flowing through her ears thudded perfectly in time with the thudding of her pulse. Also to her surprise was Fenris’s ease at teaching, at least once he’d warmed up to the idea. He told her when to flex her feet over and over and over, at what speed, how long to hold each position, and then somehow knew when her feet could take no more and told her to start a new exercise. She assumed it was through his own years of experience that he knew how much her body could take. The last time she’d taken any sort of ballet, she’d been four years old and had only lasted for six months before insisting Leandra let her quit because there was too much direction and not enough time for her to flail around the stage doing what she pleased.

The only problem with Fenris’s method was that he refused to touch her, to move an incorrect position that her inexperienced limbs had decided upon, to press down upon her back when it threatened to arch too far. Instead, he would try directing her with words, and when that often failed, he would then ignore his own rule and show her the correct position himself, wincing occasionally as the tattoo pained him. His flexibility and grace were elegant, incredible, holy to watch, even in such simple exercises; the same detached, emotionless beauty that she imagined messengers of the heavens to have in their dealings with mortals. Yes, perhaps the hour had grown late and her thoughts were beginning to become muddled, but when Fenris effortlessly leaned backwards, spine perfectly angled and arms cascading to the sides with fingers pointed towards some higher purpose, it was hard to have a clear head no matter the hour.

“I take back what I was thinking at our last lesson,” she said at one point, sweat soaking her black workout shirt and every other article of clothing unfortunate enough to be on her body. “I think you’re absolutely beautiful when you dance.”

Fenris didn’t acknowledge the comment, though he did look away, and said nothing more than, “Keep your back straight, Hawke.”

Still, as trickles of sweat became rivulets, as Fenris laughed when she really did something wrong that was so easy for him, as the music continued to replace her heartbeat, as the first lightening of a black sky into dark grey surprised them both when they headed back into the waiting room, Marian was sure of a certain comradery between the two of them.

She waved goodbye as they parted, locking up the studio when he’d turned his back. The air was getting chillier, especially in the wee hours of the morning. “Get home safe!” she called to him, suddenly worried at his quickly shrinking figure. She watched him go for a few more minutes, but when he rounded a corner and disappeared, she headed for home herself.

Passing out on her bed at five in the morning was easy enough. Waking up to the shrill beep of the phone ringing at nine was harder. She stumbled out her room and tried to muster some modicum of social grace upon answering.

“Hawke, did I wake you?”

Shit. Not graceful enough. “No, not at all,” she yawned into the phone. “Hi, Aveline. What’s up?”

“You sound like I woke you.”

“It’s the weekend. I’m entitled to sleep.”

“Well, I hope you’re not planning on sleeping every weekend away,” Aveline said with her usual maternal concern, but the next thing through the tinny speaker was surprising: “Are you up to go to my club next Friday night? There’s going to be a rave, or some sort of event like that.”

“Your club? Why your club? Aren’t you—“

“Last perks, last go, last free entry for you. Merrill and Anders have already said they’d go, so it’s just you and Isabela left.”

“I take it Varric laughed you off.”

“I didn’t even ask him, Hawke, but if you have any other friends who you’d like to laugh at you, be my guest and invite them. I can get one more person in—Carver?”

“No way, he’s so hard to—wait,” Marian drew out the last word slowly. “Do you mean it? Can you get one more person in?”

“Probably. Do you actually have friends who aren’t your usual unsavory characters?”

“No, but I do have someone in mind.” He probably would say no. But the chance, the opportunity…would he really pass it up if he wanted to improve?

“Then pass it along. I have to call Isabela now, unless you’d like to save me the trouble?”

“I’m impressed you’re inviting her,” she chirped, twirling a small strand of bangs around her pinky finger.

“I’m more polite than you give me credit for. Have a good morning, Hawke.”

“I will! Gonna sleep some more.”

But even after she’d hung up the phone, she remained frozen in place. It seemed like such a perfect chance for Fenris that she was one hundred percent convinced he’d turn her down flat. She shook her head and freed her pinky from her hair. Perhaps when she’d slept some more, she’d come to her senses and get the idea of inviting him out of her brain.

 

  


  



	4. Dance with Goblets: Tempo di polacca

His practice room door swung open, and Danarius strode in, Hadriana trailing behind him. Fenris slowly lowered his arm from fourth position and turned to face them.

“Your callback is tomorrow,” Danarius reminded him. Needlessly. It was all he’d been lecturing about the past week. “Hadriana has expressed some concerns to me about your attention to your practice schedule.”

Fenris swallowed, saliva like lead settling in his stomach. The light sheen of sweat under his shirt decorated his tattooed ribs, prickling the skin as if to draw the other man’s attention.

“Are her concerns grounded in fact?”

“No, sir.”

“Show me what you have prepared for your solo.”

He nodded, moving away from the barre to the center of the room. Anchors for elbows, heavy and shaking under the weight of his raised arms. Breath like shattered glass, rough, painful, and sharp on his inhale. He began Siegfried’s solo, aware of two pairs of slit eyes picking apart his every movement.

Danarius stopped him before he was halfway through. “It’s not as bad as you were claiming, Hadriana, but it needs work.” It. He was an it. Or rather, he had ceased to exist, a bag of bones and toned muscles tied to a marionette’s cross, and _it_ was merely the jerky motions that appeared when the macabre puppet was forced to dance, _it_ needed work—“Try to teach him something. If he were still a puppy I’d try and discipline him, but unfortunately for me, he is not so young anymore.”

He departed, leaving Hadriana alone with her prey.

* * *

 

Fenris had proven to be impossible to find through Marian’s usual means. The number from which he’d originally called the studio had yielded nothing; she suspected it belonged to an unlisted number, mystery that he seemed to be. Her artsy friends had never heard of him—Isabela had been unable to pry any contact information from him when they’d first met—and a desperate Internet search at the public library had been relatively fruitless. The search terms “fenris ballet kirkwall” had shot out a hefty list of casts from respectable ballet productions in the area, but the name “Fenris Incaensor” didn’t show up in any phonebooks or online resume profiles; unusual for a dancer so experienced. Even Marian, dancing on the border between WiFi-less poverty and dish network TV, at least had a website one of her ex-boyfriends back in Lothering had helped her throw together.

And so here she was at the Hanged Man, sitting on the stoop like she was asking for change, waiting for Varric to show up. His cell phone had gone to voicemail, meaning he was probably visiting his brother; Bartrand’s wing had a strict no-distressing-sounds policy during visiting hours. It was getting late in the afternoon, though. She sighed and got comfy, stretching her legs out and tapping a beat with her left foot in an attempt to look less homeless.

“You look homeless, Hawke.” Marian raised her eyebrows, meeting Varric’s gaze slowly from the corners of her eyes. “I mean, I knew it’d be a while for you to settle your tab, but I didn’t think things were that—“

“You’re the one who told me I could take my time,” Marian cut him off only a little impatiently, getting to her feet out of the slouch.

“And I meant it. Sorry, didn’t mean to be a jerk.” Varric had two steaming to-go cups sporting labels from the café on the corner and offered one to her. The apology was clear enough, though the gesture itself surprised her in the first place. Marian accepted and held it close to her chest. Weather was getting chillier, to be sure, but she’d wear her sweatshirt to its money’s worth before the true nip set in.

“Don’t worry about it.” She took a tiny sip as Varric got out his keys from his leather duster and fumbled for the right one. “How’s Bartrand?”

“Oh, you know. Same old.” The door clicked and Varric beckoned her inside the foyer of the residential section. “Still hears singing, still scratches at invisible ants...”

“He’s been there for a year.”

“A year’s not as long to be clean as you think, Hawke.”

Another sip. Varric hadn’t put enough honey in for her liking, but that was probably better for her health. Thoughtful of him to remember she liked honey rather than sugar in her tea, though. Especially considering days on which he visited Bartrand were usually rough focus days for him.

“Let’s not talk about Bartrand, okay? I just spent the last few hours dealing with him in person. Not sure how much more of my brother I can take,” he said once they’d climbed the stairs to the loft itself. “You know it’s always a pleasure to see you, but you also know my charm is less charming on days like this.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” She watched him hang his duster on the hook by the door over his keys, juggling his coffee cup as he went. “I had a favor to ask, actually. Simple one, not even a favor.”

“Oh, boy. This sounds like some favor.”

“It’s not! I just wanted some information on a guy.”

Varric sat down on the couch, and Marian joined him. “Fenris, right?” He shook his head at her expression. “You and Isabela haven’t shut up about him since—yes, Isabela, too,” he said before she could open her mouth. “She’s all talking about—no, you know what? You don’t want to know. But I’m going to tell you the same thing I told her: I tried to talk to him when he was downstairs at the bar, but I know probably less about him than you do.”

Marian clutched the cup in her hands, feeling embarrassed. “I just wanted to know if you had any contact information on him.”

“I don’t. What, you crushing on someone new and equally unattainable for a change?”

“Varric.”

“Hawke, it’s painful to watch.”

She looked away, embarrassment diving into shame. The tea warmed her fingers through the thin paper, giving her something to focus on. “I wanted to invite him to the club party—don’t know if Aveline told you about it.”

“She invited me,” he said in a jovial tone, as if nothing else had been said. “It’s always sweet of you guys to invite me to your dance things, but you know that’s really not my scene. Let me live vicariously through you and instead tell my regulars about your shenanigans.”

“One day you’ll give in, and then you’ll have your own stories to tell,” Marian said with a grateful smile. “Anyway, I spent some time with him in the studio last week, and I think the rave would be really good for him. But I’ve been trying to be a good stalker, and I haven’t turned up anything at all.”

“Did you use the library computers?”

“Yeah, but there’s practically nothing on him. I got his last name—Incaensor, isn’t that weird?—but there’s nothing even under that.”

Varric raked his nails against his stubble as he considered. “Weird. I can ask around, maybe talk to some of my regulars, but if you can’t find anything online…”

“Nope.”

“Still weird. Okay, I’ll do my best, but I doubt I’ll have anything by tonight.” He drained his cup and stood up, silently encouraging Marian to do the same. Her tea was still warm to the touch. “Your thing’s tonight, right?”

“Yeah. I’ve tried all week.”

“Well, who knows.” Varric shepherded her toward the door. “I gotta open the bar now, though—can you believe it’s already five?”

“It’s always five o’clock somewhere.”

“This coming from someone who still has a tab—“

“Varric!”

“Sorry.”

* * *

 

Fenris burst out of the locker room and bolted for the door before Hadriana could materialize and stop him. Something was wrong, wrong, wrong, and he needed to leave. The coaching had been brutal—he’d expect no less from her—but what had him sweating now wasn’t the workout, but the memory of her touch. She’d never corrected a posture so physically before; a barked command or a meter stick against a foot always had sufficed. For the last hour and a half, however, he’d suffered through the strangest of direction. When his arm hadn’t been raised to her liking, she had cupped his elbow in her hand and forced the arm higher. When his back wasn’t flat enough, she had pressed that same hand against his spine, the pressure of her touch making his skin wriggle away in fright. And she had always been too close, too close. Oh, yes, he’d had enough room to dance without feeling impeded, but he had come to fear the moment when she would step forward to personally correct one of his movements.

He worked well with verbal direction. He had never been one for hands-on learning, especially not from Danarius, especially not from _her_. At the very least, they had respected that much. And now something was changing, and every instinct screamed at him to run, except there was nowhere to run.

He kept up a brisk pace until the studio was at least ten blocks behind him, pushing past pedestrians who walked a little too leisurely. There had to be some sort of escape, some way he could make it on his own. At the very least, he didn’t have to go back to the flat tonight. Danarius let him have Friday nights to himself—the fact that he had an audition tomorrow would probably change that, but at the moment, Fenris was willing to pretend otherwise. Anywhere at all would be better than going back to Hadriana’s presence.

The memory of a bar flashed through his brain, a sudden haven. It was the bar he’d first wandered to after practice a few weeks ago, which meant it was nearby. What was it called, the bar where he’d met Hawke and her friends?

It didn’t matter. It was this direction, going by sensory memory alone, and he assumed he’d know what it looked like. He crossed the street with the teeming mass of people finished work for the day and left most of them to head over the bridge to Lowtown. If he remembered correctly, the bar was in one of the less sketchy districts, one nearer to the Hightown border. Before long, his memory paid off: a familiar neon sign in the shape of a man strung up upside down blinked at him in the setting sun. Relief flooded his senses as he pushed open the door to the Hanged Man.

* * *

 

Anders did have the tendency to go on for too long. Just a quick glance around the booth revealed a glazed-eyes party; Merrill looked ready to fall asleep while Isabela flicked her straw around the rim of her drink. Occasionally she’d make Merrill giggle by blowing bubbles, but that seemed to have come to an end. Only Aveline was doing her best to give Anders an iota of attention.

Varric had declined, again, to join in. Ever since he’d gotten that good review from The Guild for his oh-so-fine establishment, he’d been more and more focused on the other customers, not so much catering to his friends. Marian caught his eye from across the bar and he winked, as if sensing her train of thought, but he turned back to the taps immediately after.

It was kind of a lonely crowd, and there were still more than two hours until they even had to think about getting to the Keep. She sighed and yawned interchangeably as Anders continued ranting about whatever he was—

“And you’re part of the problem, too, Hawke!” She blinked her way to reality at the sound of her name. Anders had seemed to have built himself up into a frenzy, and now he pointed his finger at her, stabbing through the air like a bolt of lightning.

“Me?”

“Yes. You’re in our studio more often than I am these days. How long are you going to be contented with teaching ten-year-olds?”

“As long as it contents me, I suppose,” she replied, turning her head with the sound of the door opening as if she was expecting someone in an attempt to deflect Anders’s wrath. When she caught a flash of white hair, she nearly fell out of her armchair. She waved Fenris over, forcing the little wave to remain casual and not frantic.

“Your sister’s off perfecting her art at school. Even your brother—“

“Leave her alone,” Isabela said in a bored tone just as Merrill piped up with, “Carver’s doing just fine, no ‘even’ about it!”

This last bit caught Marian’s attention, even as she saw Fenris wading through the bar denizens to reach her. “You’ve heard from Carver?”

“Well, not lately. It was, oh, about five days ago, I think?” Merrill wiped her mouth with a bar napkin. “He usually calls every week, but I haven’t heard yet. What have you heard, Hawke?”

She felt rather than heard Fenris approach, but didn’t introduce him. “I’ve heard nothing.”

“Nothing? You—what do you mean?” Merril began playing with the napkin nervously. “Oh, no. I wasn’t supposed to say anything, was I?”

“Of course you were,” Aveline soothed. “There’s no harm, right, Hawke?”

“Sweet things, you’re frightening each other. And Fenris, you’re not helping the mood by lurking,” Isabela pointed out.

“Everyone, this is Fenris,” Marian took the cue, smiling especially at Merrill in what she hoped was a sane way, a “no hard feelings” way. “He’s a dancer friend of mine.” She gestured towards an empty seat near her, which he took.

“Just a…friend,” he corrected her.

“I was looking for you, actually,” Marian told him, forcing ease into every syllable. No need for him to know just how hard she’d tried. “We’re going to a club tonight, and—“

“I’m not.”

“Anders,” Aveline began to lecture, but Anders stood up, effectively cutting her off.

“I’m too riled up right now. Maybe some other time.” He nodded at Marian, singling her out. “Hawke.” Then he was gone, making his way towards the door, black leather jacket glinting in the dim light.

Awkward silence descended upon the group. Fenris jerked a thumb in the direction of the door. “I hope I didn’t offend him somehow.”

“You probably did,” Aveline offered, looking annoyed with their friend’s dramatic exit. “Everything pisses him off these days. Don’t take it personally.”

Fenris did not look appeased. “Well, with stick-in-the-mud gone, we have an extra place for tonight,” Isabela hinted cheerfully.

“I was going to ask him in a more subtle way,” Marian chided, but Isabela threw back her head and laughed.

“Sure you were, kitten.”

“Hawke said you know each other from dancing?” Merrill asked eagerly, ignoring Fenris’s unchanged expression.

“I suppose, yes.”

Marian shook her head a little in Merrill’s direction. “Why? What’s wrong with asking him that? What do you dance, Fenris?”

“Ballet.”

Marian shook her head even harder, much to Isabela’s amusement and Aveline’s consternation, but Merrill brightened. “So do I!”

Fenris looked unimpressed, not to Marian’s surprise. “Oh?”

“Yes. Do you know Marethari Sabrae? I’m Merrill Sabrae!”

“And I’m Aveline Vallen,” Aveline cut in, picking up on the social cues faster than Merrill had, but Fenris’s attention had been captured by the mention of such a well-established ballerina.

“Fenris,” he said politely, then returned to Merrill. “Did you work with Marethari?”

“She’s my aunt!”

“Yes. Did you work with her?”

Merrill smiled at him bemusedly. “I’m not quite sure what you mean. We dance together, we practice together…”

“Is she your teacher?” Fenris asked, just as befuddled by her responses as she by his questions. It was painful to observe, but the three others watched anyway, like a train crash, or like bad choreography.

Merrill laughed at the silliness of the question. “Well, I suppose she is, but only in that everything is my teacher. Dance isn’t something you learn, it’s something you—“

Fenris stood up. Marian reached up to grab his arm, but something about his aura warned her not to touch. “Fenris—“ He was already moving towards the door. Marian jumped up and followed him. He was too quick, the door opening and inviting in the cool air, but she was out before it closed and caught up just outside.

To her surprise, he didn’t bolt for the crosswalk. Instead, he leaned against the corner of the building where the smokers weren’t lurking. “It never ends,” was all he said when she crossed her arms and planted her feet across from him.

“I’m not going to apologize for my friends,” Marian replied.

“I don’t expect you to.” Still, he didn’t move, continuing to look somewhere past her head, seeming to graft himself to the Hanged Man’s brick walls.

“I was looking for you,” she said for the second time that evening, when Fenris didn’t seem to want to say anything further. “You’re kind of hard to find online, you know that?”

“I don’t particularly want to go to a dance, Hawke.”

“I know.” She scuffed her sneaker on the sidewalk. “Will you come anyway?” Silence. Marian looked up from her shoe to find him surveying her with an unreadable expression. She tried pushing her luck. “You could leave after you gave it a shot and still didn’t like it. I’ve been thinking about last week, and what you were showing me with your ballet. I’ve never thought of it that way before.”

“I won’t know what to do at such a dance.” He flicked his eyes to that point beside her head again. She was beginning to notice it as a shy gesture, as if eye contact was too intimate.

“No one does. But it could help you, you know? You seemed to like the music I was playing the other night. They’ll probably mix some of those songs tonight.” She took a deep breath. “I’m just thinking about what you told me about wanting to feel something. I don’t know your reasons for wanting to improve—your teacher, a role you want—but I think since you already know you like the—“

“Fine.” Marian’s eyes widened at the interruption. “You’re probably right,” Fenris continued, his voice taking on a bitter tone. “I need to try something different. But I don’t have anything to wear other than my practice things, and…” He trailed off.

“And you don’t want to go home?” Marian guessed, recalling his words from the other week. Fenris’s expressions went startlingly blank, but he nodded. “That’s fine. I think I should have some things at my apartment, if you’d like to throw them on.” He nodded again, and she relaxed despite the defeat etched into his shoulders. “Okay. I’m going to tell everyone we’ll meet them back at the bar in a little to head over. Don’t run away,” she added, only half-joking as she turned back towards the door.

* * *

 

Hawke returned too quickly, gym bag in tow, for Fenris to have much time to question his acquiescence, almost as if she was afraid that he would disappear in a puff of vapor. The relief on her face when she reopened the bar door to see him peering at her from around the corner was so plain that it stunned him into silence. She didn’t question his lack of response, probably used to what she saw as his taciturn personality, but as they began the walk to her home, he found himself struggling to break that view.

“I said I wouldn’t apologize for my friends,” Hawke said when they began to delve a little deeper into Lowtown. Judging by their surroundings, they were only about ten minutes away from his mother’s old house. “But Merrill wanted to say sorry for earlier.”

“It’s fine,” Fenris said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “She can’t help her upbringing.” _But she can help her attitude_. He willed his expression into remaining neutral. To his relief, Hawke didn’t push it. They walked down the pedestrian stairs together, each new step hitting the bottom of their shoes at the same time. When they reached the last one and they moved forward, again in unison although Fenris didn’t know which direction to take, he surprised himself by speaking up first.

“Is there something you enjoy other than dance? Things you’re good at?”

“Of course,” Hawke responded, raising her eyebrows. He looked away. _So open_.

“Then why do it?” The silence heralded her confusion, and when he glanced her way, Hawke’s lips were pursed. “If you have other talents, other skills that you like, why devote yourself so whole-heartedly to only one discipline?”

Hawke pointed her index finger down a small street, and they turned left together. She began fumbling for her keys out of her bag. “I guess that’s a fair question. I’d need to think about it a little.” They reached a sad little squatting building in between two other equally shabby complexes, about five stories high. Hawke punched in a key code on the well-worn panel, the gate clicked, and they entered. She pressed a button outside the elevator, and when silence greeted them, she sighed and flicked her gaze towards the stairs.

“Fifth floor,” she told him sadly.

“I bet it’s so you don’t get winded climbing these,” Fenris said. Hawke stared at him. “Why you dance, I mean. You dance so—I was making a joke,” he said defensively, starting to climb the stairs ahead of him.

“To be honest, I didn’t laugh because it’s partially true,” she said from somewhere below him, but he could hear the smile in her voice. As their ascent mounted, she continued speaking, lowering her voice once the first landing appeared. “But more likely, it’s because I’m not very good at expressing myself. Isabela always teases me, saying I just kind of stutter and blurt things out without thinking how to properly phrase them. With dancing, I don’t need words. I can say what I want to say without restraint. I can properly say my thoughts, my emotions.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Fenris said as they reached the second landing.

“Why not? You’ve kind of seen me at some of my more pathetic moments of babbling.”

He took a moment to reflect. Hawke at the bar their first meeting, snapping at his impolite questions. Hawke’s discomfort with Isabela’s fingers trailing her arm. Hawke’s look of disappointment the first time he’d danced for her, followed by her admiration during their early morning practice. And this walk, every relieved expression and pondering gesture. “I think you express yourself perfectly fine. Your emotions aren’t difficult to read; I wouldn’t say it’s easy, but you show your feelings plainly.” He felt a pang in his chest, but he continued his tangent, despite the fact that the stairs were beginning to hint at this side of annoying. “It’s just a matter of when you want to show them. I suppose you dance because it’s a more structured environment in which to express yourself; you’re in control of the when, the how.”

He only heard the muffled squeaks of her sneakers on the stairs. After a couple of seconds, she spoke up. “Well, you just answered your own question, didn’t you?” That smile was back in her voice, and he felt embarrassment warming his cheeks. A jingle of keys and she jostled him out of first place. He stepped aside to allow her to unlock the door on the left of the fifth floor landing. “Welcome home.”

An unkempt man, lounging on the loveseat with the TV blaring game shows, was startled into grunting awake when the door clicked open. “Hi, Gamlen,” Hawke said, gesturing Fenris to come in. “I’m just stepping in for a moment. Won’t bother you long.”

“Not bothering me,” Gamlen mumbled, trying to straighten up when he saw she had a guest. Given the way he seemed to be permanently glued to the couch, it was surprising when neither unwashed stench nor whiskey breath wafted in their direction. “What time is it? Didn’t mean to fall asleep like that.”

“It’s only eight or so. You feeling all right?”

“You worry too much.”

Hawke beckoned Fenris closer to the hallway, surprised that he was, as Isabela had so aptly put it, lurking in the front room, barely a foot from the door. “We’re just going to get changed for a party tonight and then we’ll get out of your thinning hair.”

“Sure,” Gamlen said, eying Fenris, who eyed him back before following Hawke. They both heard him distinctly mutter “Guess it takes all kinds” before she pushed Fenris into Carver’s recently vacated room.

Hawke grimaced. “My uncle.” Fenris snorted, covering his mouth in an effort to seem more dignified. She smiled in a mixture of relief and embarrassment, then headed to a worn chest of drawers. The room was relatively bare of effects. A mattress with unmade black sheets sat on the middle of the floor, sporting a few unmatched socks and broken pencils. Other than the chest of drawers through which Hawke was now rifling, the only piece of furniture to give the room a bit of personality was a plastic desk with superhero stickers along the keyboard drawer, but it too had a fine layer of dust.

“My little brother made it fairly clear that he didn’t want to come back,” Hawke was saying, “so I’d say these clothes are fair game.” She pulled out a white shirt several sizes too big for Fenris’s frame and made a face. “I’m sure we can find something your size.”

“What’s typical attire for a club?” he asked, simply for something to say.

“It’s a rave, actually. Things that glow in black light are a good bet, but Carver probably doesn’t have anything interesting.” She sighed and began throwing clothes on the bed. “Doesn’t have to be anything fancy, but my brother dresses like ‘freedom of expression’ is a rude turn of phrase. I still can’t believe he went off to be an architect.”

Fenris gave the room another glance. “Doesn’t seem like an architect’s bedroom.”

“I’m assuming he took everything of use. ‘Somber’ is him in a good mood.” She tossed a pair of jeans on the growing pile and closed the drawer. “I found some things from when he was a teenager, so hopefully—er, no offense.”

Fenris laughed at her discomfort. “I suppose I should be grateful to have the body of a teenager.”

“Just a teenage Carver. Like a baby monster. I’ll leave you to get changed.” Hawke weaved around the bed and left, closing the door behind her.

Left to his own devices, Fenris began sifting through the clothes with uncertainty. He had no idea what would be socially acceptable, nor did he have much of an idea as to why he’d agreed to this in the first place. Yes, he hadn’t wanted to return to the apartment, for obvious reasons, but that didn’t explain why he hadn’t bolted when Hawke had first mentioned bringing him back to her home, or when she’d introduced him as a friend and he’d reinforced by correcting as to what type of friend he was…

One of the shirts, a white wife-beater with a blue anatomical heart, looked like it would fit him. When he peeled off his own shirt and slid his arms through the newer sleeves, he realized how wrong he’d been. Carver’s arms even as a teenager must have been slabs of meat; the arm holes were large enough to expose the tops of his tattooed ribs. He glanced around for a mirror and found only an empty square in the wall with a nail for a hook. Hawke’s brother was, as she’d said, diligent and somber. Another rifle through the pile yielded similar results: white shirts with enormous sleeves, decorated with bright graphics. Hawke obviously had a theme she was going for, and he was too nervous—that was the emotion—to question her judgment. A quick glance at the jeans she’d selected, however, solidified his certainty that Carver had indeed been a baby monster, and his pants would definitely not fit. Fenris looked down at his sweatpants and regretted leaving his change of clothes in the locker room; maybe if he rolled them up a little…?

Before he could question his attention to detail, a knock at the door interrupted his half-hearted attempts to roll up a single sweatpant. “You decent?” Hawke called. He answered by opening the door. Startled by his speed, she didn’t move backwards fast enough; he was close enough to smell fruity lip gloss. He flicked his eyes over her face, saw a shimmer of eyeshadow smudged a little too far from her eyelid, and moved away like her breath had burned him.

“You look better than I do,” he mumbled in lieu of a vague apology. It was true, he was embarrassed to admit. She’d only thrown on a gauzy purple chemise over the red sports bra he could remember noticing peeking above her shoulder blades that her sweatshirt hadn’t managed to hide. Tight leggings with a galaxy pattern, her old sneakers, and a made-up face completed the look, and it surprised him when he felt jealousy shoot through his chest at the realization that she knew what she was doing in a way that he could never hope to attain.

“No, no, you look good,” Hawke insisted, leaning forward to get a closer look. Huge white earrings jangled against her jawline as she moved. “Carver’s pants didn’t fit?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, with a white shirt like that, you should be visible just fine. You look good,” she repeated. “You ready to head back?”

* * *

 

The mood at the Hanged Man had improved by the time they returned, and Marian said a silent prayer of thanks when Merrill kept her mouth shut about ballet. Instead, her friend laughed so hard at a story Varric was spinning that she choked on her rum (“I can’t believe it! Then why didn’t your brother’s chest hair grow back like yours?” “Because he didn’t water it enough, Daisy.”) and it was Fenris who thumped her on the back so she could breathe again. Fenris disappointed Isabela by ordering a glass of red wine (“Sweet thing, grape stains are much less enticing than lipstick kisses”) but when he raised his eyebrows her direction after he’d downed a third glass and his lips slowly furled into a tipsy smile, she changed her tactics (“I always liked the taste of second-hand wine.” “I’ll be sure to save some of my backwash, then”).   Aveline ordered nothing (“I have a job to do—one that doesn’t involve lying down with my tits bouncing, thanks.” “If you lie down, your tits don’t bounce, Aveline; Donnic must be so disappointed.”) and looked like she regretted that decision as her friends began begging Varric for a recounting of _Hard in Hightown_ , the book he always threatened to write and never got around to penning.

By the time they wobbled to the Keep and Aveline began stamping their hands, spirits were high. The club was an impressive sight to sober eyes, a sort of beacon of light and music in the nicer part of Darktown, but the wobbling party ignored it for the more pressing matter of following the bass drum into the Keep’s depths.

Bodies swaying to the beat obscured all view of the DJ booth, but the strobe lights’ rapid-fire switching of colors made it impossible to see anyway. With each blink of Marian’s mascara-encrusted eyelashes, hot pink changed to bright blue changed to blinding white, hands that were raised disappeared too quickly in the strobe for her eyes to follow. Underneath the rumble of the crowd, underneath the cheers and screams, underneath her skin and muscles, the bass slammed relentlessly into her lungs, sending her bones vibrating. The need to _move_ filled her muscles, and she swayed with the music, twirling to face Fenris, sure he felt at least the intensity.

He was, but not in the way she’d hoped. Usually she found him difficult to read, but now, he might as well have been on a poster for claustrophobia. Muscles tense; whites of the eyes tinted green, purple, pink; back ramrod straight; jaw clenched…she was sure the only reason he wasn’t out the door was because he was drunker than he was letting on, body too slow to respond.

But now his legs were moving, back towards the entrance, no hesitation. If he got out the door, she would never see him again, she was sure of it. If he made it through the dancers pulsing with movement, away from the tendrils of sound, back into the lightless cityscape, he would retreat into his rigid existence of routine and color-free expression. Marian couldn’t, wouldn’t let that happen.

Without thinking better of it, she grabbed his arm to stop his flight, her call of his name swallowed by the music. When he shoved her off him, the expression etched into the lines of his face wasn’t one of anger; it was pure, unadulterated terror. They stared at each other, wide-eyed with different emotion, but when Fenris opened his mouth to say something soundless, the crowd roared as the song changed. Familiar beeps and electric guitar riffs soared above the strobe, panels of cherry red light plastered themselves onto Fenris’s face seconds before recognition dawned in his eyes. Marian walked backwards to simultaneously give him space and to invite him back in, swaying her hips and shoulders with the beat as she did so, feeling a huge tipsy smile forcing its way onto her lips. She drew her arms up and over her head, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. Fenris took an uncertain step towards the crowd and slightly away from her at the same time, and when he jerked a nod her way, she turned her body back towards the unseen DJ booth to give him his privacy.

Isabela and a man with spiky hair were grinding in the orange light, their bodies curving, rising, and falling. A flash of electric green, and Merrill was jumping with the rest of the crowd, crossing her ankles with every third hop. In the purple haze, Aveline crossed her arms over her STAFF shirt and cast her eyes over the scene. Marian bumped hips with her neighbor right when the room went startling yellow. Out of her peripherals, she could see glowing white hair bobbing just out of sync with her own movements. One more bump, one more room gone blue, and she twirled her way to him, feeling her chest bubble with excitement. Fenris, inebriated and for once uninhibited, had mostly stopped eying the other dancers. Indeed, his eyes were closed in concentration, or hopefully musicality, and so she reduced her cautious distance.

Marian made sure to keep an eye on him, even as the songs wailed and buzzed and pounded a new heartbeat with each seamless transition by the DJ. His movements were fluid and flexible. No one would have thought he danced anything other than ballet, but it wasn’t quite ballet, what he was doing. When the girl in front of him raised her hands and cheered, he copied, stretching his hands above him as he rocked back on his heels. When the boy to his right jerked his elbows in a sort of awkward bird pose, Fenris extended his arms so the elbows pointed out, arching his back slightly. He was watching the crowd, drawing what Marian would have called inspiration from their dance.

By the time they had been pushed closer to the center of the floor, the unease had left his movements, making him harder to pick out in the crowd. Sweat trickled down her back, her chemise sticking to the wetness, droplets of perspiration on her stomach sparkling red like blood one moment and green like toxic goo the next. Hi-hat crunching and static electric bells thumped in her ears and eyes, highlighted by the glowing smiles and sweet smell of intoxicated ravers sweating and gyrating too close for normal comfort. The crowd breathed, cheered, danced in unison, and Marian shut her eyes as the bass dropped again, elation coursing through her veins.

Somehow, she’d wound up dancing in front of him, the other dancers colliding and jostling them together. When he jumped in place with her, with the crowd, the bottoms of his street shoes hit the bright pink floor with just enough calculated pressure. His raised arms, hands clenched into fists, allowed Carver’s shirt to fall just enough to make what looked like white tattoos glow blue. Yellow starbursts illuminated his eyes, her reflection barely visible in his irises. High keys of the piano trickled away, leaving the bass drum the only sound insistent and present. His chest was heaving with exertion, the blue anatomical heart on Carver’s shirt rising and falling with each breath. Sweat glittered on his skin, purple and red and green and blue in the half-light, and as she watched, a bead of sweat slid from his hairline down his face and somewhere onto the floor. She was winded and overheated herself, hair damp and limbs sore, no more desire for another human’s touch, but as they looked at each other, gasping for breath, she felt an incredible pull to him to which no physical or emotional connection could ever properly compare.

His eyes glowed, the green of their irises fading to their normal color, and the crowd erupted into screams and cheers. The DJ mumbled his thanks over a muffled microphone, mostly unheard over the chaos, and the lights flicked on, leaving them staring at each other in the reality of three in the morning. It didn’t surprise her when Fenris looked away, but she stared after him as he wove his way through the adrenaline-pumped revelers.

* * *

 

Danarius had said little on the drive over to Ballet Magisterium, not that Fenris had expected much. He had been grateful to get some rest through the morning traffic; he had stayed out much later than was wise, considering this was the most important audition of his career. After a very uncomfortable, “Don’t disappoint me,” Danarius had told him he would pick him up in the afternoon and had driven away.

There had been no questioning about where Fenris had been last night, for which he was grateful, but Hadriana’s mild presence that morning at the breakfast table had made him antsier than normal. It was actually a relief to enter the ballet school locker rooms and be surrounded by chattering dancers pulling on tights. He was wiggling into his own pair when the nerves hit.

It would be fine. It would be fine it would be fine it would be _fine_ , because it had to be; Danarius had given no room for a hypothetical “otherwise.” While on the one hand, maybe Danarius would be so disappointed that he would turn over his mother’s debts to Fenris and let him leave, that possibility left him without a place to live, connections, or even basic societal skills. More likely, he would become even more tyrannically rigid, a likelihood that Fenris’s imagination did not want to further explore. If he didn’t get a part in this production…he refused to follow that line of thought.

The key was, he considered as he and the other male dancers lined up for a final callback class, thinking differently. He followed the movements of the instructor with his usual ease, knowing that nothing he did with someone directly instructing him would make him stand out. He began surreptitiously casting his gaze around, observing the other dancers. They all looked different—some had better techniques than others—but basic performance skills aside, why? What could possibly make the same dance look different when performed by someone else?

They were ushered out of the practice room so that the solo auditions could begin. He leaned against his chair and began calming his breathing. The previous night, he had danced. He had watched the other ravers’ unpracticed movements and tried to replicate them, but there was no definite technique to follow, so he had been left to his own devices. Then again, the first time he’d danced for Hawke, he had been on his own, and they had both seen how undisciplined and unlovely it had been. What was the difference? Obviously he needed a guide to follow, preferably one not very experienced so that he could fill in the gaps, but that wasn’t possible when he was about to audition for one of the most prestigious companies in the world.

He closed his eyes and called last night’s images to the front of his brain. Through the swirl of alcohol haze that fogged his memories, he could remember the heavy beats of the music, the claustrophobic sweaty tangle of limbs and hair, the ever-shifting lights, and Hawke. She had moved so effortlessly through the crowd, away from him and back again, and that last song when they had been dancing together—there was no other way to describe it—had been...

It had been sweaty. It had been colorful. It had been tiring. He had been drunk.

Fenris squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. Last night had been different. He’d enjoyed the music; he’d enjoyed the way it had the same structure and instrumental quality as classical but also a certain synesthetic _feeling_ to it that made it completely different. Everyone had been improvising, which should have annoyed him, but they had also been following each other’s examples, just like he’d been doing. It had been a community of strangers, but a community nonetheless. He’d never understood what his colleagues said when they talked about the “dance community,” but last night—

“Fenris Incaensor.”

He rose, and as always, felt emotionless as soon as he followed the instructor into the audition room. Emotionless, except for a small flicker of pleasure when he saw one of the judges’ red sports bra was peeking out from under her shirt. Except for the amusement at the sight of Argento Balendin in a white shirt at least one size too big for him. Except for the memory of electric violins and flickering lights and a bass drum ricocheting through his bones.

“Act III, Siegfried’s solo,” Fenris said, handing his CD to Argento. When the first brass notes sounded through the high quality speakers, he moved.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Scène: Moderato

His room was too cold; it was too early in the evening for the heater to kick on. Fenris sat on the edge of his bed, heart hammering hard enough to keep him warm enough even without his shirt on. He ran his fingers over the tattoos curling around his hipbones, the lines snaking their way along his ribs, the groups of three dots circling the parts of his back he could reach. He needed his touch, his own touch, to breathe easy again.

It had been an eternity waiting for Danarius to come around with the car. For once, no one stayed around to talk after each dancer completed his or her solo, and ordinarily he’d have been relieved not to have to force conversation, but today he’d craved social interaction. Fenris had thought he’d had gotten enough human contact for the rest of his life at the rave, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect. Each dancer that passed him by as he waited in the foyer made him lean forward, preparing for conversation, and when the door opened and each one hurried out into the crisp afternoon air, disappointment settled in his stomach.

When Danarius arrived, it was almost a relief. He didn’t ask how the audition had gone, probably too anxious to question his ward. The car filled with silence on the drive back to the flat. Fenris wanted to scream.

Danarius parked and was making to get out when his cell phone began to buzz. Fenris ignored it, getting out of the car and its suffocating quiet. He walked to the elevator and obediently waited for Danarius, but when the other man stayed behind in the car, impatience began to bubble in his gut. He tried to keep a placid expression fixed on his face as Danarius hung up and opened the car door; Danarius, however, had an unreadable expression as he stalked towards his ward. Fenris backed up at the sight, an urge to flee shrieking in his head, but there was nowhere to go when Danarius grabbed his shoulders and pulled him in for a bone-crushing hug.

* * *

 

Marian hadn’t known Fenris had tattoos, but sifting through her memories, she realized he’d told her about them once, new ones. The tattoos she’d seen through Carver’s shirt last night must have been the ones he’d been talking about. From what she could remember, they looked like white lines, geometric or tribal, she didn’t know.

“Do you want tea? I have plenty of water.”

She smiled at Merrill and thanked her as her friend handed her a steaming cup. Marian dropped the teabag she’d taken from home and brought the warm mug closer to her face.

“Did you have fun last night?” Merrill chirped. “I haven’t been to something like that in so long!”

“It was nice,” Marian replied. “I’ve had the music stuck in my head since I woke up.” Aveline had been right; her favorite electronica DJ had practically been the star of the show. Fenris had seemed to like him, too, given their late-night dance exercise and the way he’d seemed to lose himself last night. But the way their eyes had met, had held the other’s gaze…nothing had seemed lost in that look until the music had ended.

“Hawke?” Marian blinked at the sound of her name. “Did you hear me? It’s okay if you didn’t.”

“Sorry,” Marian said, blowing air out between her teeth. “I’ve been a little distracted.”

“No, no problem, no problem.” Merrill fidgeted in her seat at the kitchen table. She removed the teabag from her mug and set it aside, clattering the saucer as she did so. It wasn’t enough noise to keep Marian’s attention; white tattoos began swirling towards the front of her mind when Merrill suddenly stood up, jostling the table with her abruptness.

Marian glanced up at the small woman in surprise, properly jostled from her thoughts. Merrill stood, hands clenched, gaze firmly fixed on a stain on the linoleum. “Merrill, whatever is the matter?” Marian asked, eying Merrill’s shaking fists.

“I’m very sorry for the way I’ve been keeping secrets from you,” she said in a shrill, rehearsed manner. She squeezed her eyes shut and lifted her head a fraction of an inch. “I told Carver that it makes me feel bad when he asks me to keep secrets from you, because you’re—you’re almost his only family left. Well, the only family who’s easy to contact. I want you to know I really don’t—“

“You’re keeping secrets for Carver?” Marian interrupted.  Merrill’s eyes fluttered open, shock clear in her irises.

“Is this—are you serious? You didn’t know?” Merrill blinked when Marian’s stunned silence answered her. “I thought that’s why you were so cold to me! I thought that’s why you came to see me today!”

Guilt thumped painfully in her chest. “I just have a lot on my mind. I’m sorry, Mer; I didn’t know you thought I was angry with you.” Merrill nodded once, then, after taking a moment to consider, scurried over to Marian’s side. She tucked the shorter woman into her arms, hugging from her awkward seated position. “Goodness, this must be some secret,” she tried laughing.

Merrill pulled away to look at her, eyes round. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’ve been nothing but kind to me since your—since my fight with my aunt, and I didn’t mean to imply you’ve been cold. You haven’t! I’m just nervous.”

Marian gave her a gentle side-squeeze. Merrill could be a breath of fresh air from their usual friend group sometimes. “I’m not mad. And I promise I won’t be if you tell me what’s up.”

Merrill fidgeted. “I don’t really want to break my promise to Carver,” she sighed. “I’m sorry, Hawke. I really am.” Then she brightened; Marian felt her perk up in their cuddle. “Why don’t you go to his office?”

“His office?”

Merrill wiggled out of the embrace and returned to her chair. She took a sip of her tea and continued. “Yes, on Main Street. You can see him for yourself, since you said you haven’t…haven’t been in much contact. He’s free Friday afternoons; he might even take you to lunch at the company café!”

Marian raised her eyebrows. “You seem to know a lot more about my brother than I do.” The eyebrows shot up farther when Merrill didn’t respond save for an evasive giggle and pink ears.

* * *

 

It had been a long week.

Somewhere in between Hadriana’s snippiness, ballet classes, practice time, and this dinner party, Danarius had received the official confirmation email. Fenris was to play the part of Siegfried in Ballet Magisterium’s production of _Swan Lake_ , just as Danarius’s phone call and subsequent embrace had suggested. Which led to the here and now: wasting no expense, Danarius had thrown a celebratory feast for his circle of friends. Despite being the subject of the party, after only an hour or two, Fenris had been ambushed by Hadriana, hissing at him to pour drinks for the guests. Danarius by that point was already feeling festive enough thanks to expensive champagne, and so he raised no objections when Fenris passed him by, collecting used flutes.

The apartment was filled to bursting with the best and brightest of Kirkwall’s dance scene. At one point, Argento Balendin waved him over with a friendly smile on his face, but Fenris merely poured him a glass and scurried away after polite greetings. He escaped to the kitchen for fresh air, but the caterer was frantically spooning beef stew into bowls and shooed him out.

Ten excruciating minutes later of forced smiles and fingers sticky with spilled champagne, dinner was served. Danarius took the head of the table, gesturing Fenris to sit to his right. He cast a quick glance at Hadriana, whose face was wiped clean of emotion, and then complied. As the caterers bustled around the table, placing each bowl of stew over the right shoulder, Danarius raised his half-empty champagne flute.

“A toast, then,” he said, amplifying his voice, “to our own young Fenris Incaensor. Fenris,” and here he turned to his ward, “I’ve never been prouder of a student. You’ve achieved what many have dreamed about and few have lived. And tonight—no, the rest of your life—you’re going to live.” This roused a couple of cheers and a couple of glasses raised to lips, but Danarius hadn’t finished, ignoring Hadriana’s frozen smile on his left. “I told you that you could ask any reward—within reason,” he added, chuckling warmly. The partygoers chuckled with him. “You certainly took your time about asking, and so—“

“Oh, I know what he wanted to ask,” Hadriana drawled, interrupting Danarius’s speech. Her mentor slowly turned to face her, smile still firmly in place.

“Oh?”

“He wants to get more tattoos,” Hadriana said with a light laugh. “He wanted your permission, I bet.”

The back of Fenris’s neck began to become damp with sweat. He hadn’t wanted permission. He hadn’t needed permission. She didn’t know a fucking thing, but she did know how to choose her revenge.

“I didn’t want permission,” he said, willing his voice to remain neutral. Not for the first time, he wondered what she’d look like with her neck broken. “It’s still my body.”

Hadriana’s laugh heightened in pitch. The dining room was silent enough that Fenris could hear the other guests nervously swallow every few seconds. Danarius considered him, eying him up and down. He had the distinct feeling that Danarius was wondering where the tattoos could be hiding, and he didn’t particularly want the man to find out.

“The company will take care of any makeup to cover them,” Danarius finally decided. The warmth had returned to his voice, though a degree cooler than it had been prior. “Because our little lone wolf has a company now, doesn’t he? To Fenris,” he said a little louder, raising the glass once more and taking a sip. The guests followed suit, cheering and drinking, the good humor restored once more. Once everyone had drained their glasses, including Hadriana, Danarius rounded on Fenris once more. “I’ve decided on a boon for you, my boy.” Out of his pocket, slowly, savoring the drama, he drew a set of car keys. The luxury logo glinted in the candlelight as Danarius stretched his hand out, offering the keys.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Fenris tried to speak. “Thank you, but I wanted…” He trailed off, noting Danarius’s gaze sharpen for a moment. Nothing more could go wrong tonight. Fenris raised his head a little higher. “I wanted to thank you,” he tried. He extended his hand, palm side up, and Danarius dropped the keys onto it.

“You’ll have plenty of time to thank me, son.”

* * *

 

The next Friday found Marian in unfamiliar territory. It was a long walk to a metro line within a reasonable distance of the firm, but a short ride once she was in a wagon. Marian didn’t go to the Main Street metro stop often, half because she so rarely visited the nicest parts of Hightown and half because the station was disgustingly huge. Four metros, two trams, and one commuter train convened here, leaving her dodging tourists dragging suitcases, sidestepping fast food litter, and pretending not to see the Fereldan beggars as if she didn’t share their homeland and poverty.

The Stannard & Co office building was only three blocks away once she emerged from the station; she could see its avant-garde design imposing on the other edifices. Upon arrival, she decided it could be sleeker for an architect’s firm. Concrete slabs tilted inwards in between rows of windows, giving the entire façade the look of an unpolished cheese grater. Marian glared at the ugly building that had stolen her brother before she came to her senses and pushed open the door.

It was hard to keep an open mind about her brother’s choices when the front desk was equally disappointing. The space was of minimalist design—stainless steel and glass coffee table surrounded by square grey couches, receptionist’s desk a white block in the center of the room, metal detector framing the entryway to elevators beyond—but without the usual aesthetic touches and tweaks to breathe a bit of life into an otherwise dead room. Marian could feel her artistic sensibilities curling its lip in disgust.

She could sense the receptionist eying her, so she wiped her face clean of unpleasantness—her artistic sensibilities hadn’t been the only thing making a judgmental face—and strode up to the desk. “I’m here to see Carver Hawke,” she said with what she hoped was a friendly smile.

The woman—Elsa, if her nametag was to be believed—stared through her. “Do you have an appointment?”

A short laugh escaped Marian before she could reign it in. “To see Carver? He’s my little brother.”

“Carver Hawke,” Elsa repeated, scanning a piece of paper. “He does not seem to have any appointments today.”

“Don’t worry, Elsa; she’s my sister. I can make time for her today,” Carver’s voice said behind Marian. She turned, and there he was, a brown paper bag with a stamped-on “Tomwise Snacks” clutched in his left hand. He nodded at her. “Good to see you, Marian.”

_Good to see_ _her, huh?_ “You, too.”

“Elsa scares me sometimes,” Carver remarked once they were in the elevator. The greasy-sweet smell of fast food filled the small space. “Meredith—Meredith Stannard, my boss—she says she likes her because she’s very dedicated, but I think she seems almost brainwashed sometimes.” When Marian said nothing in response, he drew a fry out of his paper bag and sucked the salt off, like she always had hated when they were kids. The elevator dinged, and he popped the fry properly into his mouth. “Here we are, tenth floor.”

He ushered her into a small office located in an unobtrusive spot. He offered her a chair—the only other chair in the space other than his—and to his credit, didn’t do much more than twitch with irritation when she perched on the edge of his desk. Taking his own chair, he sighed and scratched his head. He certainly looked handsome in his three-piece suit, but Marian found herself wondering how he’d been able to scrounge up the money to buy enough to rotate out for a work week and dry-clean them in the first place.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” Carver said when the silence threatened to drag along even more awkwardly. “I keep worrying that Gamlen will pick up.”

“Gamlen’s not so bad,” Marian defended her ne’er-do-well uncle on instinct.

“You’re not really off to a good start, sister. Did you come all the way here just to tell me to come home?” His characteristic frown had wrinkled his earlier smooth features. The sight of its familiar creases sent her heart drooping.

“No. I’m here because Merrill told me she couldn’t tell me anything, because she’d promised you first.” She stared hard at her brother. “Weird that I had to hear something like that from Merrill, right? Instead of my own brother.”

Carver had the grace to look embarrassed, but just as he opened his mouth to speak, he suddenly scrambled to his feet. Mouth still agape, standing at attention, her brother, Marian thought, looked like an idiot.

“Carver, keeping secrets?” a new voice said from somewhere behind her. “That doesn’t sound like the Carver Hawke I know.” Marian turned her head—second time today, damn it—and met a pair of stern, ice-blue eyes.

“Marian, this is Meredith Stannard, my boss and head of the Stannard & Co firm,” Carver said, gesturing to the woman, who inclined her head his direction. “Meredith, this is my older sister, Marian Hawke.”

“Delighted to meet you,” Meredith said, shifting a pile of documents under her armpit and extending her hand. Marian took it, feeling each bone in the older woman’s fingers as the firm handshake tightened slightly. The woman oozed professionalism. Graying blonde hair fell in carefully coifed ringlets around her shoulders. A soft gray turtleneck accentuated by what looked like a ruby and gold necklace outlined her trim figure, as did black slacks and dress shoes. If the outfit didn’t scream confidence, Meredith’s aura certainly did. Back ramrod straight and a faint smile on her face, she seemed neither perturbed nor particularly pleased by Marian’s presence in her firm. Despite the handshake, she made Marian feel like a child just by standing there. “Now, what’s this about secret-keeping?” Meredith sidestepped the unused chair and deposited her documents on Carver’s desk.

Carver looked ashamed, or perhaps embarrassed again. “I didn’t exactly take this job with my family’s blessing,” he admitted. Marian glared at him for oversharing, but Meredith didn’t seem surprised.

“And why ever not?” she asked anyway. “When I met your brother at Dumar University’s job fair, I knew he had a talent for our work. Once he revealed his extenuating circumstances, I was only too happy to help him in any capacity I could.”

Marian eyed her brother, whose chest was puffing up a little. “And what sort of work are his talents blossoming for?”

Meredith wasted no time, puffing up with pride and capturing Marian’s gaze with her piercing stare. “Our efforts are Stannard & Co are geared towards designing cost-effective and productively organized distribution facilities,” she rattled off her pitch. “Efficiency and profitability are non-negotiable outcomes when a Stannard & Co architect signs onto your project!”

Marian swallowed, casting a slow look at Carver, whose face was blank of emotion. “I see,” she said.

“Carver is doing marvelous work as the newest member of our Feasibility Studies team,” Meredith added. She smiled at Carver without teeth and departed as abruptly as she had arrived.

Carver leapt to the defensive once his boss was down the hall and out of earshot. “Mr. Rutherford in the legal department says we could have a case against that landlord, Meeran, for failing to keep the building up to code,” he said quickly.

“Oh, yes,” Marian responded, feeling her hackles rise. “And does Mr. Rutherford know how to lawyer mother out of her grave?” When Carver’s face turned whiter and he didn’t elaborate, Marian let out an exasperated sigh and slid off the desk to her feet. “Andraste’s tits, what are you doing in a place like this, Carver? Designing _distribution facilities_? Whatever ‘feasibility studies’ means?”

“I’m doing good things here, sister,” Carver snapped back. “All you do is dance your time and money away. You know most of Father’s will went so you and Bethany could go to that fancy Orlesian dance school—which you never did, by the way! Meredith’s been good to me. I have my own apartment, the pay is incredible—“

Marian turned her back on her brother. “I’ll show myself out,” she muttered.

“Good.”

* * *

 

It had been his seventeenth birthday, and like always, no one had celebrated. He was used to it by that point—the lack of warm greetings, the long hours, the strict diet—but quotidian habits didn’t lessen the lonely feeling of waking up a year older with no acknowledgement of successfully surviving this far. That birthday, he’d tried doing something different. He’d tried leaving.

Darktown probably hadn’t been his wisest selection for a birthday runaway, but it was as far away from Hightown as Fenris could get without setting sail, or climbing the mountains. It hadn’t taken long for him to hand over his small stock of cash to a thug. It also hadn’t taken long for the street dancers to find him.

They called themselves the Fog Warriors, and they were squatting in a warehouse set to be demolished at some nebulous date in the future. After rescuing the slender, lost boy with the gym bag from the mugger—who turned out to be someone they knew—they welcomed him into their midst once he confessed to running away from the ballet. He gave them a name from another life, and they gave him everything they could.

They were kind, sharing dusty quilts with him and the other Warriors back at the warehouse. They were witty, tossing verbal barbs back and forth about their dancing, their scavenging, their less-powerful insults, their looks. They were creative, blasting hip hop on a small speaker set, an daring each other in a series of one-ups and dance moves that made them look inhuman, pixelated 8-bit caricatures glitching across a computer screen.

They were free with their affections. The third day, Fenris had watched, transfixed, as Ashor and Gareth began peeling clothes off each other’s bodies, touching the revealed tattooed skin with fingers, lips, and tongues in a nest of pillows near the stove. He started when Esmerelda pressed her lips to his neck.

“Watching?” she asked. He felt her lips curl into a smile against the skin under his ear. His spine prickled.

“That’s how I learn best,” he responded, and she laughed before turning his face towards hers with two fingers and pressing her lips against his.

“Then allow me to learn you, Leto.”

His skin was a firework display and she was a pyromaniac. Where her fingers slid, flames rose on the surface. Where her mouth, teeth, and tongue laved attention, electricity surged through his muscles. Heat, simultaneously overwhelming and _not enough_ , engulfed what remaining senses over which he still had mastery when she drew him inside her; and when she cried out in ecstasy and Ashor and Gareth laughed hard from their pillows, Fenris felt connected to everyone, anything, everything in the room.

Danarius found him on the sixth day.

Fenris woke up out of a dream of white tattoos and unpleasant memories to knocking on his door.

“Hurry and get out of bed,” Hadriana snapped, muffled through the door. “It’s almost eight.”

Fenris closed his eyes, then, feeling the warmth of dreams beginning to envelop him, forced his eyelids open and rolled out from the covers. No wonder he’d been dreaming about being seventeen; today was his birthday. But this birthday, he had a mission, one more planned out than the foolish runaway ideals of his youth.

He got dressed as hastily as he could, grabbed his gym bag, and headed to the kitchen. Danarius was waiting with a protein shake. “Happy birthday, Fenris,” the man drawled, handing him the shake. Fenris took it, on edge.

“Thank you,” he replied, uncertainty clear in his voice. This was definitely a first, but he tried not to let it startle him too much. “I was wondering…” He trailed off, nerves betraying him.

“Don’t mumble,” Hadriana said, turning on the electric mixer to make a shake of her own. The three of them said nothing further as the mixer screeched and ground bananas, protein powder, and milk into a pulp. Hadriana gave the machine three more pulses before pouring the fruits of her labors into a glass.

Even in his cheerful state, Danarius didn’t encourage him to continue. Fenris forced himself to speak up one more time.

“I would like to take control of my bank accounts myself.”

 


	6. Allegro vivo

Silence. It choked him, made swallowing difficult. The shaking in his hands sounded loud. Even Hadriana hadn’t moved, and he could barely sense her out of his peripherals. Danarius took a deliberate, long, slow sip of tea, gray eyes never leaving Fenris’s face. When he set his teacup down on the breakfast nook table, the thud of ceramic mug against wood sent Fenris flinching before he could steel himself.

“Why?”

A single syllable. A single heavy, pointed word that cut through Fenris’s defenses. Why, indeed? Why did he need to take charge of his own money? Danarius would pay. Danarius had always paid. Danarius had always taken care of him. The answer was obvious, of course: Fenris needed his independence. But that “Why?”, that contesting of the obvious, like Fenris had said something blithering and stupid…

“You’ve been handling my affairs for more than nine years,” he rasped through the dryness in his mouth. “I appreciated it when I was younger, but now I’m twenty-four.”

Hadriana moved out of the corner of his eye and joined Danarius in the breakfast nook. She jabbed a plastic straw into her protein shake with more violence than necessary and began to slurp. Danarius cast his gaze over her, a flicker of distaste passing over his face, and Hadriana’s noisy slurping quieted.

“Is this really a conversation for the first thing in the morning, Fenris?”

He felt his already meager confidence leaving him with each word that came out of the older man’s mouth. “I need to help out my family myself,” he tried. Danarius’s expression remained unchanged. “In order to do that, I need to become a stable member of the dance community—“

“Isn’t the role of Siegfried enough?” Danarius didn’t react when Hadriana choked for a moment on her shake. “You’re already becoming a fine member of the community.”

“I,” Fenris swallowed, “I need to navigate the world better. I need to—“ But Danarius only looked mildly amused, save for the tightness around his lips when he smiled. Fenris’s voice dropped, breaking slightly as he lowered his head. “The money is still in my name. Legally.”

Even as he said it, even with his head bent in subservience, he realized how it sounded. The cold sweat froze on the back of his neck, as did Danarius’s tight smile. But it was too late to take it back, too late to show any more weakness. Returning to his usual silent acquiescence was easy, familiar, but far too dangerous an idea at this moment.

“You’ll still practice at my studio.” Fenris didn’t dare look up, and for once, Danarius didn’t order him to. “You’re still mine. Your successes, your failures, your _being_ is my doing.”

_I know_. Fenris kept his mouth shut.

“If you’re going to threaten me, I suppose there’s not much I can do,” Danarius said, sounding like there was a lot more and a lot more unpleasantly he could do instead. “But you’ll remember your place in the meanwhile.”

The “Thank you” stuck in his throat when he spoke, but he managed to say it. Danarius’s expression remained unchanged.

“I’ll meet you at the bank, but then you get to practice. Ballet Magisterium is waiting for you.”

* * *

 

Finished with wiping down the barre and floors, Marian slid into her hoodie and crossed the hallway to invite Anders for lunch. He’d had a class today, which was good; his schedule had become more and more sporadic these days, but he hadn’t offered makeup classes. It was a blessing he was well-established, because otherwise Marian wasn’t sure he’d have repeat students. He never showed his recent surliness to his pupils, of course, but the cancellations and disorganization had yielded more than a few angry phone calls from concerned clients. Despite Carver’s accusations—she pushed the thought of her traitorous younger brother out of her head—their studio was slowly but surely making a tiny name for itself, and on occasion, she found herself growing frustrated with her partner’s unreliability.

No music sang from the other studio, so Marian’s hand was on the door handle ready to open when the saxophone hit. She peered through the inset window just as Anders moved. His hair, done up in a high ponytail, left wisps of blond sideburns brushing the sides of his face as he dropped, knees bent and wide, then rose again. He clutched his forehead, bangs sifting through his fingers, then shot sideways, a powerful lunge to the right in time with the wheeze of the brass.

Marian watched, transfixed. It wasn’t often she got to see Anders dance, the way their classes were timed; when she could see him in action, she always felt her breath getting swept away with each of his precise movements. He noticed her staring about halfway through the piece and smiled at her, one cheeky grin with lots of teeth, before continuing, barely impeded by the distraction.

He must have been working on this piece for a while. The lines were crisp, not a limb out of place, and he bobbed up and down in perfect synchronization with the jazz music in such a way that Marian was sure he’d practiced it at least a thousand times. Watching Anders dance was always a reminder of how much he considered himself a maker of art above anything else. When the sax quieted and Anders relaxed, she stepped back from the door and let him catch his breath in peace.

“Seemed pretty inspired,” she said when he stepped out of the room, a towel tossed without care over his hair and a water bottle in his hand. “I haven’t seen that routine before.”

Anders flashed a grateful smile her way and they fell in step down the hallway. “I’ve had a lot on my mind recently, so I put together a ‘Feeling Good’ routine to ease up on my thoughts.”

“Mm,” Marian hummed in assent, understanding the sentiment but knowing not to pry lest a lecture be forthcoming. “You want to join me for lunch? It’s that time of day.” Nourishment on her mind, she stopped at the water fountain to fill up her bottle. Anders waited.

“Can’t,” he said. “I’m headed into Darktown.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m volunteering—teaching dance to the inner city kids.” He shrugged, and the towel slipped sideways. Adjusting it, he added, “I find it really rewarding.” He looked like he had something else to say—the tilt of his shoulders, leaning conspiratorially towards her, but he closed his half-parted lips, grinned again, and pushed open the hall door, following her out. With a quick nod Brielle’s direction, who blushed and waved back, Anders was gone, the “See you around” trailing off behind him as the door dinged shut.

“I’m gonna head out to lunch,” Marian said to Brielle. “Wanna come with?”

“I packed a lunch today,” Brielle replied with an apologetic wave of her plastic box.

“You sure you’re okay staying in here today? I know you have off from school today; it isn’t how I’d want to spend my day off.”

“I’m fine, Marian. Really.”

Just as she could feel a slight pout beginning to develop, the door swung open. A “closed for lunch” greeting died on Marian’s lips as she recognized the guest. The last time she’d seen him, his eyes had been alight with strobe lights and excitement, beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face and neck, disappearing into a borrowed glowing shirt. Now, his expression was decidedly somber, his attire equally businesslike.

“Hawke,” he said by way of hello.

“Hey, Fenris,” she said, willing her voice to remain steady, not quaky with surprise. Brielle opened her boxed lunch with a click that echoed. In the silence that followed, Marian’s stomach rumbled very, very quietly. “Are you on a lunch break?”

“What?” His eyes widened. She could see the whites. Obviously not a question that he’d been expecting.

“Do you want to go to lunch with me? No one’s taking me up on my offer and I’m starving.”

Fenris’s eyes darted towards Brielle, who was steadfastly fixated on eating her plastic container of cold bologna sandwich. “Sure,” he said, uncertainty saturating the single word.

Marian beamed at him and shouldered her gym bag. “Great! There’s a good hoagie place a few blocks from here.”

“I don’t know of a…hoagie place,” Fenris said, following her out the door. “And I know this area pretty well.”

Marian chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment, embarrassed by her Fereldan diction. “I think you call them grinders here in Kirkwall? Or is that Starkhaven?” She cast her gaze into the distance as they walked the block. “A sandwich place,” she finally decided. “We’re going to a sandwich place.”

Fenris made a noncommittal grunt, but as they continued, she could see him eying the shops, trying to guess where they were going.

“So what brings you to this neck of the woods?” Marian piped up after half a minute, realizing she hadn’t yet asked.

“I’ll tell you over lunch,” Fenris said shortly. Then, seeming to be embarrassed by his taciturn response, he added, “I haven’t eaten, myself. I’m famished.”

Before long, a sign for Mrs. Elegant’s Submarine Shack peeked from around the corner. “Submarine sandwiches!” Marian cried, elated by the discovery of the term. “That’s what they’re called. Submarine sandwiches.”

Fenris was staring up at the crooked sign, an expression she could only describe as wistful plastered onto his face. “I remember this place,” he said softly. Before she could comment, he had pushed open the wooden door and strode in. Marian followed, inhaling deeply as the smell of fresh tomatoes and hoagie oil wafted towards her.

Mrs. Elegant’s daughter-in-law was there, as she always was, looking ageless in her purple apron and red lip stain, as she always did. “Good to see you, Hawke,” she said with a small smile. She passed a curious gaze over Fenris without saying anything, but Fenris was staring at the menu with a purpose and didn’t notice her silence.

“Same to you, Elegant,” Marian said cheerfully, casting her own eyes over the menu.

“I am a Mrs. Elegant, too, you know,” Elegant chastised her, to which Marian responded with a request for a tuna salad hoagie—no, sorry, submarine—with extra sweet peppers and oil.

“Is this together or separate?” Elegant asked, sending a pointed look Fenris’s way.

“Separate,” Marian said just as Fenris answered with, “Together.”

At Fenris’s arch smile, a smile that sent her knees turning to jelly in a way she hadn’t known anyone but Isabela could elicit in her, she knew he wasn’t offering to pay.

“It’s my birthday, Hawke,” he said quietly, the softest purr in his voice she’d ever heard. If she didn’t know him better, she’d think him trying to seduce her into paying for his hoagie.

“Oh. Happy birthday.” Well, damn him, but it was working. “Together, if you please, Elegant,” she said to the woman behind the counter, who had watched the exchange with jaw unabashedly dropped. “Fenris! What do you want to eat?”

“A—“ After all that, he hesitated. “Green salad,” he said after a long pause. “A green salad, please. And a bottle of water.”

“Oh, I want one of those, too.”

Marian paid, Elegant started making their lunches, and Fenris took a table for two just as another customer entered. The lunch hour rush was beginning.

“So, it’s your birthday today?” Marian slid into the chair across from him when he nodded. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-thr—twenty-four,” he answered, the ghost of an embarrassed smile flitting across his face.

“Many happy returns. How have you been celebrating your survival of two and an almost-half decades?”

And the smile was gone. “Practicing,” he said, drawing out the word with contempt.

“Of course you did,” Marian said without thinking better of it. A frown she took to be hurt began inching its way down Fenris’s eyebrows, and she hastened to smooth over her thoughtless comment. “So what did you want to talk about over lunch?”

A pause. Fenris unscrewed the cap from his bottle of water—an eco-friendly cap, one that used less plastic than the easier-to-handle caps. She watched, more than a little fascinated, as his slender fingers twisted the grooved plastic quickly and efficiently. He took a long draw from the bottle, and Marian looked away before she started getting really creepy and ogling him as he swallowed.

Maker, what was her problem?

“It’s gone.”

Her gaze snapped back to his face to find that he was staring back, equally as intently. “What?”

“My drive, my—my _emotions_ ,” he corrected himself with a bit of a curled lip. “Whatever you want to call it. I don’t feel anything, not…anymore.”

His back, the white wife-beater glowing purple in the strobe, as he escaped to the door of the club. The memory of his eyes, startled by their own intensity, widening as they met hers. He had felt something.

_Not anymore_.

“I got a part,” he was continuing, his voice loud as it broke through her thoughts. “An important part, one that could change my career. I can’t lose it. This part, I mean.” His fingers spun the eco-friendly cap like a half-sovereign coin, and it flickered, equal parts translucent and solid white, as it danced around the linoleum table. Fenris sighed, a long and deep sound. “I don’t want—I just can’t.” Another sigh, this one a self-conscious exhale. “Today was hard. I apologize. I don’t mean to burden you.”

“We’re friends,” Marian heard herself saying, her own voice bright and chipper and intrusive to her own ears. “You’re not burdening me.”

He didn’t respond, but he caught the cap in his left hand as it was ready to topple over. He fixed his attention on slowly screwing it back onto the mouth of the bottle, then looked up, eyes burning with something ferocious and perhaps not quite sane. “Teach me how to feel it again, Hawke. You’re a teacher; that’s what you do.” Marian stared blankly back, caught by the focus of his gaze. Eloquence failed him in the intervening silence. “I can’t—“ he tried, biting his lip in frustration, drawing Marian’s interest. “I mustn’t—“ he tried again, clenching the water bottle and making the muscles in his forearm stand out. “I have to do this,” was what he settled on, looking at her with fierce green eyes.

“Here’s your sub and salad,” Elegant broke in, setting plates down in front of them too suddenly and yet too slowly for her to have been doing anything other than eavesdropping.

“Thank you, Elegant,” Marian said politely nonetheless. Fenris echoed her. Elegant didn’t bother hiding her inquisitive stare as she walked away, even though two people were waiting by the order counter.

“Come back to the studio,” Marian said to Fenris, who had pounced upon his salad and ate with mechanical speed. “If you’re free, I mean. And after we’re done eating. I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Fenris nodded, mouth full of lettuce and shredded carrot, and the solemnity of his expression combined with his chipmunk cheeks set Marian laughing, the tension dripping out of the conversation with the brightness of her giggles.

* * *

 

The lunch had gone well, which surprised him, considering the way in which Hawke had ambushed him when he’d entered the studio. After the initial terse discussion, they had lapsed into easy conversation. Hawke had told him more about her flight from Ferelden after the plague had ravaged the country and killed her father, but it had been long ago enough that she sounded more wistful than in mourning. He asked her about what she missed—people, places, things—and she had responded—her first dance teacher, the yarn store where she would visit her brother at work, the scraggly trees that sprouted up around her house despite her father’s best attempts at uprooting them, and, of course, a good and proper Fereldan hoagie.

Fenris wanted to share with her his own memories, his own nostalgia, but found most of his remembrances would have been more depressing than the mood required. He had thought about bringing up the most relevant, but had decided against it just as he’d opened his mouth. Instead, he’d laughed at Hawke’s joke about her younger sister’s taste in leotards and had let her carry the conversation. But the sunny memories of visiting Mrs. Elegant’s Submarine Shack on the occasional paydays that his mother hadn’t drunk away lingered in the back of his mind.

Back at the studio, Hawke reached over the receptionist’s desk and grabbed a sheet of green paper—the one, he presumed, that listed the adult group classes for the week, as they’d discussed.

“Here you go,” she said, handing him the green leaflet. “I do think it would do you some good to see how people interact, so please consider coming. They’re less expensive than the private lessons.”

“You’re not giving me a discount because we’re friends?” Fenris asked dryly, trying out the word in his mouth. It felt nice.

Hawke beamed. “Friends are friends not by asking for freebies, but by supporting each other in their artistic endeavors.”

He took the paper, squinting at the type. “Which classes do you teach?”

“My name is listed underneath those ones; you’ll see.” Silence filled the space between them, unnoticed by the teenager behind the desk, as he continued to squint.

“You’re going to have to point them out to me.”

“Do you…can you read?” Hawke asked, awkward in her bluntness.

Fenris laughed shortly. “Theoretically. The words tend to swim. I’m just slow—I was put into ballet school early enough after not having much…formal education prior.”

“Oh,” Hawke replied, an embarrassed smile brightening her features. The graceful curve of her nose stood out against the tilt of her mouth, and Fenris stared, bewildered as if he’d never seen a nose before, until Hawke noticed and looked away.

“Thank you, Hawke.”

“No problem.”

He puzzled out the class schedule at a mortifyingly slow pace, wishing that Hawke would at least make herself busy or say goodbye instead of very obviously trying to look nonchalant, as she was doing now. After several excruciating moments, he nodded at her. “I see some that might be useful.”

“I thought you might,” she replied, looking relieved. She chewed the inside of her cheek for a split second, then spoke again. “You had a pretty lousy day of celebrating.”

“I suppose I did, yes.”

“I have a class to teach in a few minutes—“ Fenris felt a surprising bubble of disappointment flutter in his chest, but she wasn’t finished, “—and you’re free to watch, but then I was thinking we could go do something fun, meet up with a few friends, maybe do something.” When he didn’t reply, she added uncertainly, “For your birthday.”

“I know.” He continued his silence, considering. As usual, but perhaps more so than usual, returning to the flat seemed extremely unappealing. “Thank you. That all sounds…very nice. I’d be happy to watch the class.”

He helped Hawke select the music for the kids’ lesson after she gave him a couple of samples to listen to, and while he scarcely knew what his own taste in music was, he did like the bit of Philip Glass that she played for him. The kids filed in promptly at two thirty, although one boy was five minutes late and they could hear him frantically running to the locker room to change, his sneakers clapping on the floor as he hurried. Fenris was surprised when none of the other children giggled, not even once, not even when the boy emerged red-faced and panting with his shirt inside-out. Instead, all of them, including the tardy one, paid careful attention to their stretching as Hawke instructed.

It was, all told, a completely different curriculum than the one to which he was accustomed. Where Danarius would have stepped on his foot to get the offending toes to flatten out properly, Hawke called out instructions and reminders in a gentle tone. One of his instructors at Danarius’s studio liked to walk around with a long cane that he would use to prod and push incorrect limbs into place, and while the cane was used only for this purpose, it had frightened Fenris as a youth into rigidity and stiffness. Here the kids were at ease, mostly, if a little embarrassed at the beginning and eventually erupting into titters when one of the girls tooted a bit as the class leaned over in a trickier pose.

They barely gave Fenris a second glance. They didn’t complain about the choice of modernist music, despite the intense feeling of each piece, nor did they look especially thrilled about it. They looked entirely, fully, one hundred percent human, and Hawke at their center looked as human and as comfortable being human as any single person could be in a room full of awkward preteens.

“You have a gift,” Fenris said to her as the kids filed out to a waiting room full of parents.

Hawke looked both uncomfortable and pleased with the compliment. “High praise coming from you.”

“I meant it,” he said, following her to the receptionist’s desk. The teenager had put on her coat and looked ready to leave at Hawke’s say-so.

Hawke smiled at him, gratitude in her eyes, before she turned to the teenager. “Brielle, where did Anders say he was going?”

“How should I know?” Brielle sputtered, failing to hide a blush.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hawke said, benevolent in the face of the girl’s discomfort, “I just thought he might have said something to you.”

Brielle’s blush deepened. “He said he was going to the children’s clinic in Darktown. He’s teaching dance to some of the kids there.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Hawke lightly slapped her hand to her forehead. “I forgot he was volunteering. I just didn’t know where. You can go home now, Brielle. Thanks as always.”

“See you next week.”

Hawke collected her gear and Fenris followed her out as she locked up and set the alarm. The metro was a good walk away, and they spent the time talking about her students’ strong points and weak points and how Fenris, from a different medium’s standpoint, thought they could improve, or how her teaching style could accommodate their needs better. These were all unfamiliar questions for Fenris—no one had ever asked his opinion on these matters before, and his lack of confidence in his answers seemed to throw Hawke for a loop. Still, the conversation lasted pleasantly until they swiped their cards and got on the metro together during rush hour.

Jangling bodies filled the wagon, the air misty with unseen sweat. Fenris and Hawke were jostled back and forth each time the train heaved itself forward, and pushed further back as new passengers boarded, with them the occasional beggar. Fenris, who had spent his morning at the bank with Danarius and a notary getting control of his accounts back, looked away, guilty, when the paper cups jingled his way.

After the discomforting situation at the bank, he had gone directly to his first rehearsal at Ballet Magisterium. He had met his understudy, who was thinner than he was but with noticeably more toned muscle definition. The director, who at first had been delighted at how quickly Fenris picked up on the first routine in _allegro giusto_ , later became just as frustrated as Fenris was. They both could feel the lack of emotion, if “feeling” no emotion was something that could happen. Although the preliminary rehearsal hadn’t taken much time today, the day had felt very long.

The train lurched forward, and Fenris, lost in his own thoughts, jerked forward and against Hawke. For a brief moment, he smelled clean sweat and sweet breath, felt her hands slide against him in an instinctual protective gesture, heard her almost inaudible gasp.

“Sorry,” he muttered, righting himself and moving back the half inch that the crowded wagon allowed him.

“’S fine.”

Fortunately, theirs was the next stop.

* * *

 

They made their way quickly to the clinic; though the sun hadn’t yet set, Darktown was never a place in which Marian felt safe. At the clinic itself, they were stopped by the receptionist. As Marian tried to explain that they were there simply to meet a friend who was volunteering that day, she noticed Fenris stiffen out of the corner of her eye just as Anders passed by one of the windows. She paused mid-sentence, unsure of whom to check on first, but Fenris surprised her by saying, “Hawke,” in a very low, very worried tone.

“Never mind,” Marian said to the now-suspicious receptionist with what she hoped was a winning smile. She glanced back at the window to see Anders chatting amiably with a woman, whose back was to Marian and who had some interesting white ink on the back of her neck. She shot a look at Fenris, as if searching him for similar yet unrevealed tattoos, and Fenris said, more urgently, “Can we leave?”

Whatever the reason for the discomfort, the fact that he was uncomfortable was more pressing. She hadn’t considered a hospital environment being potentially difficult, but now was not the time for questions. She pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up as they exited the clinic, swerving around Anders and the mystery woman, and she noticed Fenris did the same. Once they were on the metro again, headed in the Lowtown direction, he spoke up without any prodding from her; she had planned to remain silent on the matter.

“I knew that person.” Marian was certain he didn’t mean Anders. Fenris wasn’t looking at her, gripping the pole; all the seats were taken again, but rush hour had tapered off enough to be less claustrophobic. “I’m not in an ideal situation. I haven’t been for almost ten years—I’m indentured to a man who took me off the streets so that I could be his scion, make a name for himself through me in ballet.”

His gaze was on the wagon window, not at her. The reflection of the tunnel lights glittered in his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me this,” Marian offered, but he shook his head.

“You always wonder why I hate dance. This is why.” He was silent for a moment more, then seemed to feel Marian’s eyes on him. He looked at her. “I ran away on my seventeenth birthday. That girl—that woman rescued me. Her and her friends, they called themselves the Fog Warriors. They saw dancing in a way I had never considered.”

She didn’t know why he was telling her this, but she was grateful that he chose to share it with her regardless. Isabela liked to joke her way out of personal backstory. All Marian had managed to divulge about her tragic past was that her mother had forced her to marry someone who had somehow died, and that she had bounced around from painting gig to occasional unsavory task to dancing in some uninspired music video, which was how she’d met Marian. She gripped the pole tighter and listened.

“Danarius found me quickly. I’d only been with them a few days, but I’d learned…I thought I’d learned so much. But when the man who practically owns me was there, in front of me, wordless…” Fenris shook his head as if to get rid of the memory, but he continued. “I panicked. I got up off my bed, the bed they’d given me. Danarius told me to come with him, and I could have done that, just that, but…” His dark fingers grew white around the knuckles as he clenched the pole. “They called to me as I joined him. They knew everything. I’d told them everything. But I told them they didn’t know anything—not about me, not about dance, not about life. I told them they were better off dead than living in squalor in Darktown, pretending to dance. I didn’t _need_ to say this. But I was scared. And I did.”

Air screamed through the open window of the wagon as Marian regarded his self-loathing expression. “You were seventeen,” she said, just as softly as he was speaking.

“I should have known better.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I never thought I’d have to face them again.” The doors opened, let passengers on, and shut again. “I’ve never spoken of this to anyone.”

Marian looked at him and waited for him to meet her. “Thank you for telling me,” she said, hoping the sincerity in her voice couldn’t be read as facetious.

His eyes widened. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion; then, just as she expected him to look away, he kept staring, as if he’d never seen her before and was trying to figure out why a stranger was fixing her gaze on him so intently.

“Do you want to get dinner?” Marian found herself blurting out. “My treat. For your birthday.”

“Sure,” Fenris replied, with the same words and inflection as he’d responded to her initial invitation.

They got off at the stop closest to her house, when Fenris said he had no preference for a birthday dinner.

“Hope you like Orlesian,” Marian said as they emerged from the bowels of the metro.

Fenris glanced around at their Lowtown environment and scoffed at her lame attempt at a joke, but when she looked at him, he was smiling slightly. They didn’t have to go far to find their intended destination: Vincento’s neon sign lit their route from half a block down.

“A pub?” Fenris grinned when her feet headed its way.

“It’s cheap and has good food. I’d think it’s as good a location as any,” Marian said with a matching smile.

“Happy birthday to me.”

“Hey! Do you want a free meal or not?” Marian sniped back, half-wondering the answer in seriousness. Fenris only shook his head, still smiling, and waited for her to go in.

They found a table quickly enough, were handed menus quickly enough, ordered their food quickly enough, and were halfway through an entrée-sized salad and a club sandwich when an intoxicated woman grabbed Fenris’s arm quickly enough for the amount of alcohol she’d appeared to have drunk.

“Fenrish, what an absholute _pleasure_ to shee you here,” she drawled as Fenris recoiled. Her black hair trailed down her cheeks, almost obscuring her face.

“Excuse me,” Marian piped up, briefly forgetting how to deal with severely unpleasant drunks in her shock. The woman, naturally, ignored her.

“Here for your birthday? With a _woman_? My, my, I guesh we know how Dan-dan—how that fucking money you wanted _sho_ badly dripsh down the drain!”

Fenris jerked his arm out of her grasp as Marian hastily rummaged for her wallet to pay and make their escape. One of the waiters took a step forward to come investigate.

“Go home and sober up, Hadriana,” Fenris mumbled, for some reason too paralyzed to speak up so the drunken woman could hear.

“Get out of here,” Marian said, loudly enough for the other waiters and patrons to take notice. One of Hadriana’s companions approached, carefully wrapping an arm around her wobbling body.

“Come on, Ana,” the friend said slowly. “It’s time we get you home.”

“Not without him!” she shrieked, trying to shake her companion off. “Fucking _thief_ —“ A waiter tapped the friend on the shoulder and quietly asked the two of them to leave as Marian slapped down the appropriate amount of sovereigns.

Outside, Fenris was no longer paralyzed. He was seething.

“Shall we take a walk?” Marian asked, unsure if she wanted him walking on his own in such a state. He nodded several times more than necessary and began moving on his own. She followed his brisk pace. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” he spat back, “I don’t want to _talk_ about it.” Shoulders hunched, he stalked a few steps forward with violent energy, an energy that seemed to drain out of him into a slightly calmer pace as the seconds ticked by. After a few more moments, he looked to have lost the desire to lash out and elaborated. “That was Danarius’s protégé. She’s insufferable—denies me my meals, haunts my sleep, makes _advances_ despite all that…”

“I’m sorry.”

“I just wish I could have a chance, just one chance, to crush that bitch’s heart.” He stopped, abruptly enough that Marian had to take a step back to him. “Distract me, Hawke. I can’t think about this, not tonight, not after today.”

The sun was finally setting early, a true testament to autumn, and the streetlights flicked on around them. Unsure of what to say, what to do, Marian gently placed a soothing hand on Fenris’s arm, realizing too late it was the exact place that Hadriana had grabbed him. He noticeably tensed up, then allowed her to move her hand up to the black cloth covering his bicep. Fenris’s eyes bore into hers, and when she swallowed, she heard the sound resonate in her head.

He put his other hand in her free one, using it to pull her slightly closer. She followed willingly, feeling her heartrate race. “Tell me to go, and I shall,” Fenris said, his voice shaking and barely above a whisper. She took another step closer, her hand on his bicep sliding up to his collarbone, and now when he swallowed, she felt the muscles in his chest spasm.

Her lips were on his before either of them had a chance to run.

* * *

 

Hands pulling each other down the street, teeth tugging at lips, heedless of the occasional Lowtown pedestrian giving them stares, they somehow found their way down the block to where her apartment complex leaned against other buildings. After several wrong key codes—possibly made more difficult by his fingers trailing against her stomach under her sweatshirt, or her left arm wrapped around his neck and her right hand blindly stabbing at the panel’s buttons—the door clicked open and they toppled inside.

The elevator worked. Their mouths guessed at what the other liked as the lift creaked its way up to the fifth floor. Another fumble for keys, another finger against a sensitive spot, another curse, and she unlocked the door to her apartment. Her uncle wasn’t home, his coat absent from the hook, but she didn’t seem to notice.

They tripped over the TV remote, laughed awkwardly, then pulled each other close once more, lips colliding with an intensity that seared and left the spaces not kissed feeling empty. Except for a small table lamp on a nightstand next to the bed, her room was dark.

“The light, do you—?“

“No, it’s—“

A laugh.

“Leave them off.”

They fell on her primly made bed, her knee between his legs and his back on her lavender sheets. Fabric slid against fabric, slid against skin, fell to the floor.

“There are more!” A delighted tone.

“Yes, I’ve never—they’re new.”

“They’re beautiful. I like the color.” A pause in the half-light, uncertainty evident in the silence. “Did they hurt?”

“The ones on my feet did.”

A sock, thrown to the floor with playful force. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

A moan, and the tattoos are forgotten for the time being. Her bra snapped when it came off, and she giggled breathlessly. Snap, buckle, zip.

“Wait.”

“Is—everything okay?”

“Do you have--?”

“Yeah, I—give me a second, they’re under my bed.” Blind rustling. A cheer. Crinkle, snap, shy laughter.

They are heat, pure flames seeking oxygen to burn, to live. It’s not like dancing at all. It’s a heightened sense and a base pleasure, they sought more having attained enough, it’s not like dancing at all, they’re together at least, _Maker’s breath but you’re beautiful_.

There is no thought for dancing, for art, for emotion; only simple euphoric release. Her lavender sheets curled around her as she slept, and he lay awake in the darkness waiting for her to wake up.

  
  



	7. Dances of the Swans

First, surprise.

"Mnh...? You're awake?"

"Yes. I apologize if I woke you."

"No, no. Mm…hmn? You're dressed already? ...Was it that bad?"

"No, it...it was fine."

Next, hurt.

"Oh."

"That...was inadequate."

"Yeah, no shit."

"It was better than anything I've... But, Hawke, this, it's too fast. This is too fast."

Then, shame.

"I don't want to have this talk while I'm—hold on. Can you—?"

"I won't look."

"...Okay. You're safe."

"I'm sorry. I just wanted to be happy. Just for a little while. But..."

"No, no. It's cool."

"It's not. I'm sorry."

Finally, silence. And she was alone.

* * *

 

Unlike an asymptote, friends do not stay friends and strangers do not stay strangers while inching infinitely closer and never achieving connection. At a certain point, a line is crossed: friends can become lovers, strangers can become friends.

Or never. People aren’t geometric patterns. Lines can meet, become angles, fixed at one point; but humans change each time they interact, branching off one person and becoming another, another new self to introduce to a new individual. A new dance, then—contact dance, improvised and organic, the dancers touching and varying their movements each time another dancer joins the fray.

But it wasn’t like dancing at all. They had walked toward each other, and then they had walked away. Point intersection. They changed, and their worlds changed with them. When drunk uncles retreat ever deeper into their solitude; when rivals torment and taunt; when rejecting married friends’ dinner invitations is easier than sitting through an evening of their mutual happiness; when "home" is an unfamiliar word because there is the place of residence and then the place of emotional warmth, it's hard not to sink and slump into self-pity and self-loathing. It's the simple thing.

But life has to go on. The goal is to get through one day at a time, and with that solitary motivation, the days became weeks, weeks go by quickly, and time pushes insistently into that ever-reaching, distant "somewhere," where old bar tabs are repaid to loyal friends, and muscles and bodies become more toned, more fit. And searing touches in warm, dim lamplight go half-remembered in different bedrooms of neighborhoods miles apart.

* * *

 

Even Danarius was losing his patience with her. Last night, Hadriana and her current lover had slammed the door at four in the morning, moaning so loudly Fenris was sure she was either faking or drunk, the two sounds reverberating through the apartment walls. His was the bedroom closest to the front door, down the hall as it was, and so he had woken up as if slapped into consciousness. While he was sure Danarius, in the master suite on the other side of the flat, couldn’t hear Hadriana’s exaggerated cries and the creaking of her mattress, Fenris occupied himself with slicing an apple in the morning when their guardian rapped loudly on Hadriana’s bedroom door. Packing up the apple into his lunch box which he then deposited into his gym bag, Fenris slid out the front door when he heard two hungover complaints as Danarius entered her room.

This hadn’t been the first time in even a week. Danarius had no rules barring overnight guests; his only strongly-worded request was that late-night arrivals do so quietly. Fenris had never known Hadriana to so flagrantly ignore Danarius’s few restrictions on her, and this sudden rebellion surprised him. One evening, he’d come back from Ballet Magisterium to a tense scene in the dining room: Hadriana stood, arms crossed and back straight, in front of the tall man, who was telling her in no uncertain terms not to bother showing up to teach if she was intoxicated. Hadriana caught sight of Fenris’s arrival first and looked ready to sneer, but Danarius hadn’t noticed and had continued his quiet threat. Once the old man saw him, however, Fenris was instructed to shower before dinner. He took his cue and left them alone. By the time his hair was dry and he returned to the dining room, the lecture had ended but the foreboding silence remained.

The principal choreographer for _Swan Lake_ had been at his first audition and had taken a liking to him. Her name was Wynne, which he knew not only out of necessity, but because she made it her habit to check up on him before and after rehearsal. She had encouraged him to start taking classes there, at Ballet Magisterium, and when he found himself unable to procure decent excuses as to why he had to continue at Danarius’s studio, she made it her personal mission to find out as much about his daily class routine as she could.

“If you could be anyone, who would it be?” she had asked once in the middle of a conversation. The question had startled him. It was a question to ask children, children with futures and ambitions and dreams. Not grown men with established careers.

“Myself,” he answered. Honestly, he thought. What was the use of wishing away his existence and taking on someone else’s identity? His was the life he had to lead. She looked at him with concerned blue eyes. Eyes that belonged to someone who considered herself helpful.

“I would consider that a healthy answer from anyone but you,” Wynne replied. “From you, it sounds like a lack of ambition—or, perhaps, inspiration.”

Fenris willed himself to not let his fear give way to anger. “I had a...I had a friend who told me the same thing.”

“And what did you tell this friend?”

_Distract me, Hawke_. “I didn’t tell my friend anything.” He swallowed. “Inspiration comes from within, not from external sources.” Now, all he had to do was believe it.

Perhaps this interrogation was due to her own kindness, but Fenris was sure he could thank his director for it. Director Pavus had grown less frustrated in the last few weeks, but he had developed the nervous habit of playing with his thinning mustache. While Fenris couldn’t take full credit for his anxiety—ticket sales hadn’t been what they used to be in several seasons—he knew he was partly to blame.

“Why so angry?” Pavus would say. “You think you’re dancing with Odette. You don’t know you’re being deceived.”

Or, “Don’t concentrate. Just concentrate on her. Remember, ballet is effortless. Ballet is easy.”

And, once, during an uncomfortable moment after rehearsal, “Your passion reminds me of my son.”

He had no passion, only intensity. Passion has a desired target, but his intensity had only voracity. With each of the six princesses and each of their six understudies, he seized their bodies and consumed their grace. He guided Siegfried’s friends along the floor with powerful leaps and violent pirouettes, hunting not swans but the energy stored within them.

Each day the dancers left exhausted, none more so than Fenris. Principal ballerina, Diana, told him in half-jest that his vigor was contagious but she didn’t have the immune system to fight it off. He knew she was kidding, just trying to form a connection, but the comment left him feeling empty, starved. At this rate, it would only be a matter of time before he burnt out and his understudy replaced his ashes.

* * *

 

Isabela returned from the stacks with a small pile of books tucked neatly under her breasts. Marian clicked her way from the library’s homepage to the Internet browser.

“Okay,” Isabela whispered, setting the books down near Marian’s keyboard. She plopped onto the swivel chair backwards and spread her skinny jeaned legs in a more comfortable position. “Look through those and pick three for yourself. I’m partial to _35 Ways to Seduce Through the Stomach_ , _Idiot’s Guide to Loan Default_ , and _Finders Keepers: A History of Poison_. But if you like any of those, I’m flexible.” Marian could see the dirty joke realization glowing in Isabela’s eyes and hastened to cut her off.

“I think the subtlety of that combination will be lost on the librarians. They’re used to checking out books on autopilot; they should have titles and covers that jump out.”

“Ye of little faith. I think _A History of Poison_ would be noteworthy.”

Marian shook her head, smirking despite herself. “But you have to get through the _Finders Keepers_ portion first, which is boring enough to make their eyes glaze over.”

“No fun!” Isabela pouted. It was an effective pout. Her full bottom lip pushed the lip stud slightly outwards and big brown eyes widened, and Marian turned her attention back to the computer. She tried to get to the library at least once a week to check her email, but with the amount of unread messages that awaited her each week, maybe she should make the trip more frequently.

_Or get a computer_. She winced at the thought of even the smallest baby computer requiring an expensive Internet service. Gamlen was spending more afternoons at bars than evenings at home or days at work; maybe it was time to stage an intervention.

“You haven’t picked your shocking titles, sweet thing. Your emails that interesting?” Marian started at the pet name and came back to the present. Isabela was leaning over her shoulder now, scanning Marian’s emails, one dark hand supporting her on the table, the other resting on her jean-clad hip.

She smelled like her favorite seawater-infused soap. “Reminds me of home,” Isabela had told her when they’d first gone shopping together in the bodyworks section, early in their friendship. Then, she’d winked. “The good parts, anyway.”

“Kitten, you’re smelling me.” Isabela’s voice jostled Marian once more out of her thoughts, but her tone wasn’t teasing.

“Sorry.”

Isabela carefully pushed herself off the table and back into her chair. She crossed her legs and regarded Marian, trimmed eyebrows pushed together and mouth pursed. Feeling her friend’s eyes on her, Marian scrolled through her unread messages in what she hoped was a nonchalant way. Some were junk, or coupons from local athletic clothing stores.

One was from Bethany. She clicked on it, but Isabela began whispering before she could read.

“I’m not who you want me to be, Hawke.”

Marian inclined her head Isabela’s direction. “Oh?”

_Hello, Marian. I’m sorry I haven’t written in so long! It’s so busy here, and when I’m not in class, I’m studying Orlesian. Everyone makes fun of me for my Fereldan accent, but I think they tease in a nice way._

“I like being your friend. You’re the first friend I’ve had in…well, a very long time.”

“I’m glad, Bela.”

_But that’s not why I’m writing! I wanted to tell you something exciting and interesting_.

“But you’re bringing…feelings into this. And that’s hard.”

For some reason, it was hard to swallow. Maybe because her mouth had suddenly gone dry. _My mentor, Orsino, wants to plan a springtime trip with my class to Kirkwall. He has some friends who—_

“I’m not cut out for feelings. If you were happy with just my body, that would be fine. But we wouldn’t be friends. And I want to be friends.”

Now Marian looked at her, removed her sweaty hand from the mouse and folded her arms over her sweatshirt. Isabela regarded her with no hint of a smirk. “I’m happy being friends.”

“No, you’re not. You want more. And I can’t…give you that emotional intimacy. I just can’t. And I think a hookup between you and me would just hurt you.”

Marian’s smile wobbled. “It’s kind of self-centered of you to think everyone’s in love with you, isn’t it?”

Isabela’s earnest and preachy expression fell fast. She leaned forward, arms still crossed. “ _Self-centered_?” she repeated, voice rising in shock, or maybe outrage. The only other person at the end of the row of computers shushed her, and she sent a fierce glare his way before redirecting it at Marian. She grabbed the mouse of the computer in front of her, shook the screensaver away, and began typing into the catalogue search bar with furious clacking noises. She gestured Marian over with a violent jerk of her index and middle finger.

_No results found for: **IM self-centered when uve been a moping, miserable WRECK for a month and a half? This is the first time uve been an actual SOCIAL CREATURE instead of sulking all over kirkw** keyword(s) truncated due to length_

Marian’s bones froze in anxiety just as her blood boiled. She opened her mouth to retort, but Isabela pointed to the keyboard. Huffing out an irritated sigh, Marian grabbed the keyboard and clicked the search bar.

_No results found for: **I don’t need to be reminded of getting rejected while someone’s rejecting me.**_

Isabela scoffed, an ugly and guttural noise, and pulled the keyboard back.

_No results found for: **cry me a river, ive rejected u before, just not so honestly**_

Marian moved to take the keyboard back, but Isabela had decided to type more.

_No results found for: **i woulda done this sooner if id known u were still hung up about it**_

She could feel her cheeks flaring. Anger, hurt, shame…

_6 results found for: **Forgive me in my time of need**_

At that, Isabela leveled a searching, scornful glare at her and yanked the keyboard back.

_No results found for: **im not ur fuckin rebound hawke**_

Marian stood up too fast, her bony hip knocking the pile of books. Her cold hands shook. “I’m just asking for some sympathy.” She hated herself when she spoke, the tears evident in her voice. Before Isabela could respond, Marian strode out of the computer room and pushed past the library doors. She didn’t care what Isabela was going to say, anyway.

No wind blew, but the temperature had dropped significantly since their entrance only an hour ago. Today had been supposed to be fun. After successfully startling a librarian or two, they had been planning to meet Merrill for a Merrill-cooked dinner, and maybe watch a deep sea documentary while getting drunk off box wine. Now the evening stretched out before her like barren tundra.

The bricks of the parking lot wall sapped her heat through her hoodie when she leaned against them. It was probably time to retire her sweatshirt for the season. Gamlen had been wearing his leather jacket since the end of summer, since Carver had left, since everything had slowly but steadily marched along on its way to shit.

She had left her email open and unattended when she’d left. She’d forgotten to log out. _Double shit._ Isabela had probably done something nasty, like mix up all the names in her address book or something. That seemed like something Isabela would do.

_Bitch_.

Even now, lost in her misery, the tears wouldn’t come. Perhaps she could be grateful for that—it was too cold to let tears dry on her face.

The library door swung open, and Marian, standing a few yards away against the parking lot wall, glanced up hopefully. Isabela marched out, three books under her armpit, but she didn’t look her way. With purposeful strides, she walked to her beat-up sedan, unlocked it, swung herself in, and in a few minutes was speeding out of the parking lot without a glance back.

It was still cold, and was only going to get colder. Careful, controlled steps brought Marian back to the library door. The handle was icy when she pulled, but the computer room was warm. Bethany’s email was still up on the screen, halfway down the page where she’d left it.

She ignored the judgmental stare of the other computer user and finished reading her little sister’s email.

* * *

 

Fenris, keenly aware of the director’s anxiety, had informed Pavus of his decision to complete his tattoo before the debut. To his relief, Pavus had practically shrugged him off. “Talk to makeup, not me.”

He had spoken with the head of costumes, who had politely asked to see the current tattoos and, after Fenris had lifted his shirt a bit and explained the rest of the design, also shrugged him off. “They’re a little raised, but not too much, so it wouldn’t be a problem.”

His arms were half done now. He had gone directly after rehearsal ended one Tuesday evening, since he had an unusual three-day break in his schedule, and now his arms sported veins of stark white that glittered in the light from his bedroom ceiling lamp.

_“There are more!”_

Fenris tugged off his shirt with more force than necessary and willed his mind to return on track. When he had another break in the future, he would get them inked over again. After that, all he’d have left would be the ones on his neck, chin, and forehead. Fenris could admit his nervousness about getting those; the arms had been the easiest ones so far, but that only made the fear stronger. It was his face. Plenty of bones. There were only a couple patterns left to do, but he knew the few minutes they would take would feel excruciatingly long.

Still, he could be happy with the result for now. He needed to do this. He had originally planned on celebrating the tattoo’s completion by buying an apartment for himself, but now that was looking to be more of a priority. With control over his bank accounts, Fenris had learned how to write checks, but soon remembered that he didn’t know where his mother and sister now lived.

He wouldn’t ask Danarius. He couldn’t ask Danarius. Hadriana had taunted him when he was practicing proper check format.

“Don’t you want to know where your sister is? Don’t you want to know if she’s even alive? Maybe they’ve forgotten all about you, or moved to Ferelden and died of the plague.”

“Shut up,” Fenris had snarled back from his perch at Danarius’s desk. Fortunately, Danarius was at his studio. Unfortunately, Hadriana was not. “It’s not like you know where they are.”

“You forget that Danarius holds me in higher esteem than you.”

“You forget that you’ve been careless,” he bit back, self-conscious rage fueling an impulsive tongue. “Danarius doesn’t keep you around as a charity case. With your injury, you already border useless to him. Now you ruin the one chance he gives you by teaching classes drunk—“

“I can afford that risk,” she sneered, managing to curl her lip regally even sprawled on the sofa. “I still have a family to take me in.”

“Then go back to them and quit wasting my time by existing here. Leave me be.”

“When did you get so direct, Fenris?” He heard her push herself off the sofa. Her voice approached him from behind. “Wasn’t it only yesterday that you were a frightened little street rat willing to do _anything_ for a shot at ballet school?”

Fenris wrote out the numbers on his fake check. He’d spelled ‘hundred’ wrong, but he fixated on filling out the rest. “I grew up.”

“You certainly did.” Her fingers twirled a strand of his hair, and he slapped her hand away.

“Do not touch me.”

“I didn’t. It was just your hair.”

He turned, inch by inch, to glare at her. Hadriana’s face was even, but her eyes sparkled. She blinked, and the sparkle magnified.

Fenris had no pity for her, but he held his temper in check. “Please leave me alone, Hadriana.”

She did then, but it was just the once. If Hadriana hadn’t been frightening enough to deal with, there was the matter of Danarius. He arranged for a driving instructor to come on Fenris’s off days, but the first time the woman had showed up, she had surprised him by asking for a check. Danarius’s days of paying for him were over, and this shouldn’t have been such a revelation, but it begged the question: why remain here? With Hadriana’s unpredictable moods and Danarius’s return to cold severity, there was no reason.

Fenris flicked off the light in his room and slid under his sheets. Tomorrow, his day off, he would go to a realtor, just to see what the house hunting market was like. He knew he would have to save up regardless, but that only was made more difficult by not knowing his family’s location. They had to be in a phone book, or searchable online. People didn’t disappear like that, and he’d seen Danarius writing checks only a few months ago. Tomorrow, then: a realtor, then the library. After that, the whole day would be his.

He closed his eyes and began planning out a day of productive ease, but as his mind meandered towards sleep, so too did it meander elsewhere. Elsewhere, lavender cotton sheets draped themselves around a lightly snoring form. His briefs felt rough against his legs as he tugged them up, tattoos pulsing white even in the darkness. He had explained. It had been too fast, too connected with unpleasant people and unpleasant emotions. He’d wanted more but was scared to ask. She smiled and understood. “It’s cool.” And it was. He’d fallen asleep as lavender cotton sheets draped themselves around two forms—

No. Fenris’s eyelids flickered, roused from half-sleep. That hadn’t been what happened. He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that the skin by his temples protested.

That hadn’t been what happened at all.

Lips and teeth. Fingertips burned through his shirt, through his pants, on his neck. He didn’t know her. She was hard muscle and soft skin, a hoodie getting in the way of sensation. He didn’t know what to do, what she liked. Guesswork, reaction, guesswork, moan. He liked it when she raked her nails up his back, shudder shiver reaching for her, mouths clumsy in an unseen bedroom twilight. It was happening it was happening “Do you have—?” Her naked back, leaning over to grope blindly under the bed, an expanse of skin with one mole and two freckles in a diagonal. A cheer. Foil and latex, it was happening, rip, she helped him, they laughed. She was silk and heat and it was happening, her face was red and her eyes were closed. He knew her eyes were blue in the sunshine—were they? Or were they brown? Primal need, sensation, _you feel so good_ , was that the right thing to say, had he said it out loud? Too late, she moved and he _reacted_ , she laughed and he could feel it. “Maker’s breath, but you’re beautiful,” she said.

And when she woke up, he was a stranger in her lavender bed. All his clothing felt rough against his skin, tattoos hidden with the lamp switched off. He hadn’t explained. It had been too fast. Her smile froze on her flushed face. “It’s cool.” But it wasn’t. He’d left.

In fearful sleep, Fenris decided.

* * *

 

“Hawke, Orana wants to talk to you,” Anders told her in the hallway.

“Does she have a question?” Orana was a new and recent hire. Nervous as all get-out, but with Brielle back in school and more frequent lessons on the calendar, Orana was a necessary labor of love.

“I have a class right now,” Anders said by way of apology. He ducked into his studio and closed the door.

“I have a class to teach, too,” Marian grumbled after the door clicked shut, but padded down the hall and went through the door to the waiting room. Orana dropped several envelopes of checks when she heard the door open from behind her.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.” Marian nodded at some of her early bird students and gestured for them to head into the hall.

“I’m so, so sorry,” Orana sputtered, scurrying to pick up the envelopes. Marian hurried over to the receptionist desk and helped her stack the fallen materials back into an orderly pile.

“Anders said you were looking for me,” she said when all the envelopes had been saved. Orana nodded and twisted a ring on her finger.

“You have an extra student coming for your class. There’s ten now,” she said. “He just called to ask if it was all right. I told him it was. Is that okay?”

“Sure. Who is it?”

“Mr—ah, he didn’t give me a last name. Fenris.”

The name stabbed through Marian’s unassuming expectations sharper than a needle. For a brief, fleeting instant, hope fluttered through her stomach, but the choking weight of dread quickly smothered it. Her voice sounded very high as she made some vague noise of assent.

“He came in last week to ask for a schedule, I think,” Orana responded, seemingly oblivious. “I recognized his voice over the phone.”

“He has a distinct manner of speaking,” Marian heard herself saying. “Thank you for telling me, Orana.”

“Anders said you might like to know,” Orana said, twisting the ring faster. “I hope it’s all right.”

“Of course it is.”

Marian shook her head as she returned to her studio room. She was an adult. An adult who didn’t like being taken unawares, but an adult nonetheless. She could handle one new student, albeit a very familiar student whose purpose in coming escaped her. The rest of the class hadn’t arrived yet, and not everyone was finished changing in the locker room, so she spent her time hooking up her small stereo and flicking through CDs. She settled on a collection of percussion pieces and had the first track playing when the rest of her adult students filed in. Each time the door opened, she reigned in the impulse to jump. When Fenris finally arrived, her pounding heartbeat stilled.

His dark arms, the even tone broken by cracks of white, drew her attention first. But when she looked up to properly greet both him and the students entering with him, his green eyes were locked on her face. He smiled, a self-conscious thing, and moved deeper into the room. Marian pulled her eyes off him and greeted the whole class. They rumbled back a response—some of them even asked how she was doing—and the smile she forced onto her face came easier than expected.

“All right, everyone,” Marian said, and it was eight o’clock on a Wednesday and the show had to go on.

 

 

 

 


	8. Ballabile: Dance of the Corps de Ballet

_Shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk…_

“It’s a bit of an unusual class, so thanks for giving me a chance, guys!”

A chorus of assents greeted her.

 _Shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk…_

“Contact dance. Contact improv, if you prefer. It’s sort of abstract. What is performance? Do we need an audience? What kind of movement makes this a _dance_?”

Tailored for Fenris, really. The tattoos on his feet pulsed through the openings in his ballet flats. Why had he chosen this class, of all options?

 _Shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk…_

“We’re going to wake up! We’re going to start feeling the space, breathing it in, falling on each other and onto the floor. However it works. Think of your connections to the environment and to these strangers around you—how can you move and breathe with them? Kind of spacey stuff,” laughter, “but I think you’ll find this useful for any of your other classes. We have an interesting lineup next week—“

His tattoos stood out to her in the group of students in front of her. Why had he chosen her class, of all options?

 _Shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk…_

“I have the music set up to be something that your ears won’t really notice, but once you get in the flow of it, your _body_ will notice. Let’s dance.”

They watched each other sway as the drum set picked up.

 _Shk, shk, shk,_ boom, _shk, shk, shk,_ boom, TSSSSS, _shk, shk,_ boom, _shk, shk, shk,_ boom, TSSSSS, _shk…_

There was no room for awkwardness in this studio, not when half the students present had more self-assurance than pride and dignity. Three dancers floated to the floor in the first ten measures. By the time one arm stretched out to one hand reaching out to one finger pointing out against another dancer’s wrist, half the class was staggering around the room and half the class was on the floor.

The ones who stumbled, he could see an invisible line pulling them across the room. They looked to be guided by it, not drawn by their own agency but coaxed into movement by….by something else, something he couldn’t name. He stopped watching them, closed his eyes on the floor.

 _Shk, shk, shk,_ boom, _shk, shk, shk,_ boom, TSSSSS, _shk, shk,_ boom, _shk, shk, shk,_ boom, TSSSSS, _shk…_

The ones on the floor, she didn’t notice. Her eyes saw beyond human forms, registered only movement. Her current partner inhaled deeply and she moved when he did, imagining their two skeletons sharing energy, their lungs expanding as they rolled on the green mats in slow motion. They broke apart when gentle fingertips from different partners pressed against each of their backs, and they rose from their back-to-back crouch and joined the new partners.

Small sensations. Little jostles. Plenty of touch. _Was he okay?_

 _Shk, shk, shk,_ boom, _shk, shk, shk,_ boom, TSSSSS, _shk, shk,_ boom, _shk, shk, shk,_ boom, TSSSSS, _shk…_

Someone touched him, and he breathed into the movement. He didn’t reject the panic, because his eyes were still closed and he’d been lying on the floor turning from side to side for a while now. There wasn’t panic to reject. He kept his eyes closed and moved with them, feeling silky strands of hair against the back of his neck and another person’s palm against his own. The three of them—four?—stood up as one, staggering slightly with the expectation of multiple dancers’ movements, but when he put his right foot slightly ahead of the group to walk, the other partners walked with him.

He was the leader now, and his eyes were still closed. He walked forward and found himself moving to the left, because he and the other partners had simultaneously decided to move some other direction. He didn’t ask how they knew all at once. He didn’t notice enough to ask how they all knew.

 _Shk, shk, shk,_ boom, _shk, shk, shk,_ boom, TSSSSS, _shk, shk,_ boom, _shk, shk, shk,_ boom, TSSSSS, _shk…_

Two new partners guided her to the center of the room. One arched her back, the other partner followed the curve, and she herself sank backwards into the embrace of a new group of partners. She closed one eye to place herself in the space and caught a glimpse of white tattoos.

His eyes were closed. She closed hers all the way, too.

 _Shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk…_

His heart was pounding in his chest. Anxiety? Snare? Certainly not passion, but he didn’t have time to analyze it. A new partner was pliant and moving in his arms, and his other partners had moved on some seconds ago. He dimly registered the familiarity of the feel of her skin, but an equally-dimly-registered fear kept his eyes shut.

They fell to the floor, falling as slowly as they could. His muscles ached in holding the new, descending positions. Ballet didn’t always involve this, some part of his body was aware.

 _Shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk…_

Touch. She moved, rolled around his body as they sank to the floor so that their backs pressed against each other. He understood her aim immediately; he held her up through sheer effort on the part of his core and quads. She lay against his back, her thighs sore with the effort, as their backs bridged and their legs screamed and bit by bit they supported each other to the gym mats.

She opened her eyes and slid down, providing some relief, but never breaking contact. She tapped her fingers against his arm and he shifted, turning so slowly it pained her muscles just to watch.

 _Shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tsssss, _shk…_

His eyes opened. Dark green irises against the electric green of the gym mats, hair white and skin flushed.

A new partner touched the back of her arm when the music trailed into silence.

 _Shk, shk, shk, shk,_ tssssssssss.

* * *

 

Isabela hadn’t even responded to Merrill’s invitation to join them tonight, at least according to Merrill. Marian suspected she’d said something that Merrill didn’t want to repeat, but she also had no evidence for her paranoia. Aveline was too busy as of late for such get-togethers, now that she was a real cop with a real badge. So far, she wasn’t loving the work. “Feels like I’m just another bouncer, but now the government writes my paychecks,” she’d complained last night. She’d invited Marian and Carver over for dinner last night for Donnic’s “famous” fish fry. Marian had finally accepted. Carver had not, claiming he was “busy with work.”

This meant there were only three of them for tonight, not including Varric, whose apartment was playing host. Varric, downstairs setting up the bar for the evening, had been the one to invite his friends over in the first place, but a last-minute trip to Bartrand’s had him searching for something to tidy up, some way to be productive. Apparently it hadn’t been a good visit, but he also had not elaborated past his frenetic energy.

Marian hadn’t known Varric very well in the days before Bartrand’s overdose—or at all. Varric’s aid in letting her dwindling family into Kirkwall during the plague years had been a long time ago indeed, and while she was sure he’d gone into the specifics of the happier days at least once or twice, she’d never known what was made up and what was true. Anders had known Varric much longer, but he’d never shared the information.

She cast a glance toward the apartment door, nervous for her friend’s sake. Merrill and Anders were chattering away, but Varric’s stress had her feeling slightly anxious as well. Everyone seemed to know about her problems; the least she could do was stand to find out about her friends’, too.

“Yes, but you know how my aunt is,” Merrill was saying.

“It’s up to you if you want to prove your worth to her or not,” Anders argued back. “But if you ask me—“

“But I didn’t, Anders—“

“—then your dancing shouldn’t be about its _worth_ to someone. It should be about the message _you’re_ sharing, not just on a personal or communal level. It should also be what it means to you.”

“That’s a fair point,” Marian chimed in, against her better judgment. He didn’t seem about to start a tirade, but one could never tell with Anders. “But I don’t quite understand what you mean by ‘not just personal or communal,’ Anders.”

“I mean to say that—“

“I want to join a ballet company despite all that,” Merrill interrupted with a determined fold of her hands. “If dancing is about the message _I_ want to share, then the message I want to share that the old ways, an attunement to your natural atmosphere, is just as good a technique as spending years at ballet school. If I can join a company, it will prove _—“_

“A _company,_ ” Anders spat. “Forget the blighted _company_.”

“Anders,” Marian cautioned, but the tripwire had been set off.

“Merrill, do you think so poorly of what you do? Do you want to wrap it up tightly and package it up into a neat little compartment—your dancing, your _essence_ —package it up and sell it? That’s all these companies do. It’s commercialization of art!”

“But dancing isn’t her _essence_ ,” Marian argued.

“I like gardening and reading and watching makeup tutorials—“

Nothing would stop him. “Those companies, that’s what they _do_ to people. You know who’s the worst? Ballet Magisterium,” he thundered when he didn’t get a response. “Haven’t you seen the subway ads the last few, what do they call them, ‘ _seasons_?’ Like dancers are in season. Like they’re hunting us down, our hearts ripped out and blood drained. Our bodies stuffed with foreign material and put on display—“

“Anders, enough,” Merrill snapped just as Varric poked his head through the doorway.

“All right, guys. Bar’s open, and I need to lock up my apartment. If you want to come downstairs, you’re welcome to, but keep your yelling matches to someone else’s building, okay?”

They traipsed downstairs in tense silence, Merrill leading the three others down to the bar. Varric gave the counter a final wipe-down and asked, “What can I get everyone? You guys paying tonight?”

“I am,” Marian said.

“I know _you_ settled your tab, Hawke. The question is for Blondie here.”

“I’ll take a B&B.”

“Sure thing; if you’ve got the sovereigns, I’ve got the booze for your grandpa needs. Everyone else?”

They placed their orders and began the festivities, each of them trying to shake off the tension. Perhaps hanging out at the Hanged Man at every opportunity wasn’t doing their friendships any favors, Marian mused as she watched Varric toss a lime slice into a gin and tonic backwards over his shoulder, but where better to meet friends than at a mutual friend’s bar? It was Saturday night. If even Anders could get over his preaching for one night—or half of one night—to have a good time with his friends, she could lighten up.

Fenris had come to the class the other day. Was it two days ago, or three? Bourbon tended to hit her fast and hard; making sense of the days of the week was always the first ability to go. He’d paid and said a courteous goodbye in a chorus of other contact dance students. Apparently he’d called back—it was three days ago because Orana had told her he’d called on Friday, and Friday was yesterday, right?—and joined another group lesson for next week.

How did she feel?

Tipsy.

“Don’t drink so fast, Daisy. If you don’t get enough water, you’ll wilt.”

“’M not a _plant_ , Varric!”

“You’re about as thirsty as one.” Marian could see Anders plucking a glass out of Merrill’s grasp, but Merrill snatched it back after poking him sharply in the stomach.

“Maybe just thirsty for Junior.”

“Can we not?” Marian tried to grimace, but her laughter ruined the expression. “No one—no one tells me _anything_!”

“Hawke, you were willfully oblivious to your little brother’s poor attempts at flirtation when he still deigned to frequent my establishment.”

“ _Willfully oblivioush_ —“

“They weren’t—poor attempts!” Merrill shrieked.

“Softer, Daisy.”

“Maker, Merrill. You’re like a tea kettle,” Anders chided. Was he still on his first glass? Varric disappeared out of her line of sight, probably to help another customer.

“It’s because I’m _thirsty_!” Merrill squealed in delight.

“Merrill, _quiet_.”

“You want another glass of aggregio pavali, friend? I still have six bottles of it.”

“Tempting, but no,” an amused voice answered Varric. Marian’s drunken ears perked up. “I need to start saving my money. I’m curious to see what you can do with vodka and a—“

“It’s because you’re blowing all your cash on my dance lessons,” Marian said as soberly as she could manage, though traces of laughter in her voice could be heard even to her.

Fenris, perched on a barstool in sweatpants and an unzipped down coat, offered her a grin. “Not all,” he said quietly.

“Vodka and a dance lesson,” Varric said, setting down a short glass in front of him. “I whipped this up for ya. Tell me what you think and I’ll put it on the menu.”

Fenris took a sip and unfurled another smile. “Is that apple?”

“Apple sparkling water with some peach syrup. Keep it a secret.”

“I like apples. Not sure the peach syrup works, but it tastes…good.”

“Noted. Stick around and we’ll experiment some more. Blondie, need a refill?”

“Hey, what about me?” Marian complained, petulant.

“You still have half an Old Fashioned, Hawke.”

Marian glanced down, and to her delight, the ice in her Old Fashioned had melted enough to provide her with more booze. Watered-down booze, but booze nonetheless. She took a sip and tried not to look at Fenris. “I didn’t know you liked aggreezsh—whatever.”

“It’s a good wine. I don’t know of any other bars in Lowtown that serve it.”

“Varric’s a connoshieur.”

“So I see,” Fenris replied. She noticed they were both staring at Varric’s collection of bottles behind the counter rather than talking directly to each other. “It’s a good wine.”

“Pricey, though.”

“Yes.” A pause. Old Fashioned—a classic. A delicious, _old-fashioned_ classic. Marian stifled a snort and nearly choked mid-swallow. “I’m more prudent with my savings now. I leased my first apartment. I moved.”

What was a normal, human response? Something to do with congratulating him, or surprise that it was his first apartment, maybe. Where was it located? “I guess that means you finally have a reason to wanna go home,” Marian said, turning to smile at him.

Fenris giggled, the sound catching in his throat. A giggle? Cute—“Not at the moment, no. I mean—I like the apartment. But I’m quite content here.”

Marian beamed at him. “I’m content you’re here, too.”

Fenris coughed, but it sounded an awfully lot like another giggle.

* * *

 

Hawke won a round of cards, and Anders wasn’t even furious. He handed over his coin with only a little irritation. “Double victory for me!” she crowed.

The bar filled up fast. Varric stopped mixing drinks for Fenris according to whim long enough to accept his pay, and then disappeared to handle the influx of customers for the rest of the night. Fenris didn’t need any more, anyway.

“Isabela says men only provide one thing, but women provide _six_ ,” Hawke informed Anders, her head in Merrill’s lap. “Or is it seven? Anders, did she say seven?”

“You’re the one telling me the story, Hawke.”

“Puppy!” Merrill said, petting Fenris’s head. He batted her hand away, a little too slowly and inefficiently to get her to stop.

“I’m not a dog.”

“Every time you stare after Hawke…” Merrill continued dreamily.

“I’m a wolf,” Fenris insisted, throwing his head back on the pleather couch.

“Awoooo!” Hawke howled before dissolving into a fit of laughter, making the smaller Merrill shake.

“Hawke, thank the Maker you don’t have a class tomorrow,” Anders said, smiling despite himself.

“Every time!” Merrill continued, quitting the petting process to jab a finger against Fenris’s prominent nose. “You stare at her with these sad puppy eyes—“

“There are _no_ puppy eyes!”

“Anders, what if—what if Bela doesn’t _like_ me anymore—“

“Of course she does.”

“No, but _what if_ she…. _doesn’t_?”

“You sound like a fifteen-year-old.”

“Did you read that story about the wolf—the giant dog—who you could make—put a saddle on him—and you could—“

“You’re making this up, Merrill.” Fenris closed his eyes and kept them closed even as Merrill began gently stroking his hair again.

“It was a tiger!”

“I’m not a tiger, either. Tigers are…orange.”

“Awoooo!”

“Blondie!” Varric called from behind the bar. Other patrons glanced Hawke’s way.

“Hawke, quiet down. You made that joke already.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

“Oh, Maker,” Hawke said, sitting up straight and nearly hitting Merrill’s chin in the process. “I’m sorry.”

“See, if _you_ were a tiger-wolf,” Merrill was earnestly trying to convince Fenris, petting his hair with reassuring strokes of her small hand, and thus didn’t notice Hawke’s flailing, “you would give me a piggyback.”

“I’m a pig now?”

“No! What’s the word? Tigerback sounds frightening!”

“I’m sorry, Anders.”

“It’s fine, Hawke. It was funny.”

“No, I’m really sorry. You work hard to make sure I’m okay. Like the other day, when you told Orana about my _friend_ —“

“Hawke, that ‘friend?’ He’s here right now. Quiet down.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For the love of Andraste, Hawke; there’s no need to cry.”

“Okay.”

“Are you not strong enough?” Merrill asked, quitting her ministrations on Fenris’s hair. His eyes shot open at the implied challenge. Merrill’s smile grew.

“Of courshe I am. I just don’t—“

“You’d be so much stronger if you gave me a piggyback! Good for your dancing muscles!”

“ _Venhedis_ ,” Fenris snarled, standing up with a force that shook the couch. Hawke shivered and cuddled close to Anders, who awkwardly wrapped a soothing arm around her shoulders. Fenris bent down on one knee, his back to Merrill. “Climb on.”

“Yay!”

“Blondie!”

“Why do _I_ have to babysit everyone? Fenris, how many have you had?”

“Get on, ballerina.”

“Whee!”

“ _Blondie!_ ”

“Fenris hasn’t had as many as me,” Hawke volunteered as Anders shrugged himself out of her clinging embrace. “I’m making enough money, finally! Did you know he leased his first—“

“I’m falling! I’m falling!”

“It’s not _my_ fault—grip! Come on, you’re too drunk—“

“Hawke and gang need to get out of my bar right now!”

“Ow!”

“Come on, Hawke. Come on, Fenris. Merrill, you’re _fine_ , you don’t need to _pout_.”

Lowtown streets were quiet when the door clicked shut behind them. Fenris refused to piggyback Merrill home, but he was out of breath and so it was hard for her to understand the rejection. Hawke pulled Merrill home in the direction of the Lowtown metro, and Fenris and Anders made their way to the opposite direction station.

“Why’re you following me?” Fenris asked as Anders swiped his card. The machine blipped and let him through its gates. Fenris fumbled in his coat for his own card. “I can get home fine.”

“Why did you come tonight?”

Fenris swiped, the machine blipped, and he walked unsteadily to meet Anders.

“I like that bar. Varric is—“

“How do you know Hawke? Why are you always at the studio?”

The antagonism in Anders’s voice surprised him enough to pause on his way down the underground stairs.

“I’m trying to better my technique.”

“You dance ballet, right?”

Fenris nodded, then thought about it. “Mainly, yes. But—“

“You’re drunk and I’m hoping this won’t mean much to you now. I just hope it’ll enter your subconscious and you’ll act of your own accord.”

Fenris swayed a little on the stairs, uncomprehending. Anders’s eyes were sober and bright, hard like steel in the dim glow of the ceiling lights.

“Keep Hawke out of your machinations. Whatever you’re intending, whatever dancing you _claim_ to study. Leave her, leave us out of it. Our culture doesn’t need half-assed pretention.”

“You don’t know me,” Fenris said slowly.

“You’re right. I don’t. So I hope I’m wrong and that you’re just misguided, that you’ll find some other hobby to pursue without hurting any of my friends, or ruining our dream for this city.”

His words were hard to follow. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Get home safely, Fenris.” Anders trotted down the stairs and followed the signs to the Darktown direction. Fenris stayed on the stairs a moment longer, considering, before he finished his descent and headed off in the Hightown direction.

* * *

 

When his alarm beeped at seven thirty AM, Fenris was pleasantly surprised to discover that he’d managed to avoid a hangover. The lingering tipsiness dissipated after he’d showered and dressed—he always tended to take good care of his hydration after getting drunk. It was nice to realize that even in his new location, a loft on the edge of Hightown, he had the same habits. He dimly remembered filling his water bottle at some hour the previous night, and while he didn’t remember actually drinking from it, he felt fairly refreshed and his mouth wasn’t dry. In fact, he was rather proud of last night’s Fenris for taking good care of himself in a new apartment.

He finally had a place to return to, and it felt good. He’d been so painfully careful in shopping around, in moving out. He wished he could have found a cheaper place in Lowtown, but with the car came the need for a safe place to park. Lowtown wasn’t the best option for that. He hadn’t consulted a real estate agent and had found this place after a week or two on the prowl. Since there was no need for a moving crew and his bank balance was more than satisfactory, signing the lease had been easy.

The hard part had been finding a time to actually move. He’d been cautious, listening to Danarius and Hadriana’s terse conversations about their schedules for last week. When he was sure that their absences would align well with the end of his rehearsal, he’d dashed to the Free Marches Market and bought a suitcase. It hadn’t been cheap, and he couldn’t even spend much time to choose a suitable one, because the purchase of the suitcase and the move had to be planned on the same day. It would be risky to leave a brand-new suitcase lying in his room where any snooper could discover it, question it.

It hadn’t taken long to pack his things, which was almost depressing. He had few books other than the textbooks which had tormented him during his first few years in ballet school. He wore through his dancing gear quickly enough and he didn’t tend to hoard worn-out flats or anything sentimental, so he had the exact amount he needed. He took his alarm clock, which he’d purchased himself. He packed his clothes and coats and toiletries.

Most of everything else belonged to Danarius.

But the car did not. Fenris was keenly aware of this fact. That uncomfortable, frightening trip to the notary with Danarius had passed both the car—apparently paid in cash, according to its documentation—and bank accounts to him, to his name. He’d considered selling it, this car that he hadn’t really wanted, but it was too soon to make such a decision. Besides, it came in handy during the move—gas for the journey was, at least, cheaper than making a cab wait.

And so he’d loaded his suitcase and gym bag into the car and ran. His palms got sweaty on the wheel, and his heart still pounded every time he got stuck in the middle of an intersection when he was trying to turn, but at least this freedom was given to him. A freedom he hadn’t wanted, but apparently needed.

A freedom he hoped would last well. _Until Danarius finds me_ , the frightened teen in him said. _Let him come_ , Fenris replied, willing himself to believe it.

When he’d arrived at the complex and parked the car in its small garage under the building, he tried to allow the adrenaline to overwhelm his anxiety. Ten years and two identities later, and all he had was a single suitcase and a gym bag half-full of another person’s dream life.

But the apartment was nice. Small, suitable for his needs. It was sparsely decorated, and he didn’t know when he’d have time—or what he liked enough—to go and choose proper decorations. For now, it had come with a decent kitchen and utilities as well as a mattress on the floor, much like Hawke’s younger brother’s severe bedroom.

As he brushed his teeth in the tiny bathroom, Fenris couldn’t help but compare his new living arrangement to the less-and-less familiar one from his childhood. His search for his mother and sister had so far been fruitless, and while he knew that they’d moved, he still winced at the thought of the two of them living in the same one-room apartment that he remembered. They hadn’t called it a “loft” like they did in the Hightown real estate ads. They hadn’t called it anything. It had been their only option. The only thing they could barely afford.

The after-school dance program he’d joined seemed to be their other “only” option, but now that Fenris didn’t have their new address, even he had failed them. He wasn’t sending checks. Fenris spat out his toothpaste into the sink, the foam pink as it slid down the drain. His pride, his refusal to ask Danarius or Hadriana, was going to be the death of his family.

It was eight o’clock, and he was going to be late to his first real class at Ballet Magisterium after spending all this time brooding. Fenris threw his lunchbox into his gym bag and raced to the metro station, dashing the few blocks to the stop.

If he’d had a tiger-wolf with a saddle tied to it, some part of his brain informed him, he’d get to the metro a lot faster. Danarius had made him change his name once his talent had shown. Legally. “Fenris Incaensor,” he’d said. “’Incaensor’ comes from an old Tevene word. You wouldn’t know it. But it fits you, _Fenris_. My lone wolf. All alone—“

He shook his head and swiped his card. A lone wolf—

 _“Awoooo!_ ”

A single snort of laughter escaped his lips as the gates opened, and he closed his mouth before anyone commented or sighed impatiently. Fenris moved forward and boarded the next train to the Gallows District, but it was a struggle keeping his lips from twitching on the wagon.

 


	9. Entrance of the Guests and Waltz

“It’s inspiring to watch you,” Fenris’s understudy—that slender young man with some unpronounceable name, Feynriel or something—told him in the locker room before class. He had a smooth complexion and very delicate features that made his face look like it was about to break every time he smiled earnestly, as he was doing now.

Fenris nodded. “I am grateful you think so.”

“I mean it,” Feynriel continued, wiggling into his practice attire. “I never thought I’d see someone just… _breathe_ the way you do, when you move, I mean. I always wanted to see people like you when I got my first role, and I admit to being disappointed at other companies. Ballet Magisterium is the real deal—or I guess you are,” he added with a self-conscious laugh. He ducked his head, but his eyes flitted back towards Fenris, seeking reaction.

“That’s very flattering,” he replied after a moment to recollect himself. “No one’s ever accused me of breathing poorly, however.”

Feynriel laughed again, a relieved sound, but he missed the smile Fenris flashed his way.

* * *

 

“You look chipper,” Marian accosted him as soon as he walked through the door to her room at Studio Amell. He’d come to the lesson early—another contact improv class. He said it helped ease his mind and improve his posture, and she wasn’t going to be one to complain. “Rehearsal going well?”

“I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”

“I’m stunned. Was I right? Are you actually happy because of…dare I say it… _dancing_?”

“Leave well enough alone, Hawke.” She could hear the grin in his voice, even though he’d turned around to stretch.

“You like my teasing,” Marian said, flipping through CDs. In the mirror, she didn’t miss the sight of him reaching down to touch his toes, then rising vertebra by vertebra, inch by inch.

His hair was getting long, she noticed. “I like the way you tease,” he replied, drawing out the last word as he stared her reflection in the eyes. She cast her gaze downwards, away from the amused green eyes in the mirror and flipped faster.

He didn’t laugh at her blushing, but his smug expression didn’t help her as she introduced herself to the class with red face and flustered babbling.

Good rehearsal, indeed.

* * *

 

Gas was getting expensive. Kirkwall used to be known for two things: its artsy-fartsy scene, and its dirt-cheap gas rates. Free Marchers and roadtrippers alike would often make a point of stopping near Kirkwall for a local band at a coffee shop and then loading up on cheap, cheap gas before heading on their way. These days, with the industrialization of the area, the local bands and cheap gas had moved on to places like Orlais and Antiva. These factors made Fenris less likely to want to drive his car to the studio, and also made his fellow metro passengers annoyed with the tapping of his feet to the _Swan Lake_ music trickling a little too loudly out of his headphones.

Someone poked him on the shoulder one commute. “It’s eight in the fucking morning,” she snapped. “You think I want your pretentious shit blaring in my ear at this hour?”

_You think I want your voice in my ear at this hour?_ Fenris bit his tongue and slipped the headphone back over the offended ear in question, but his pride kept him from lowering the volume. When he tapped his foot and shifted it in some mockery of second position, he made sure to keep it away from the other foreign feet. The woman shoved past him when the train reached her stop, and as _Swan Lake Act 3:_ _Antivan Dance_ shifted to _Swan Lake Act 3:_ _Orlesian Dance_ on his music player and the cheerful trumpets picked up, he wiggled his head at her through the window in time with the beat. She didn’t notice.

* * *

 

“Fen!” He glanced up from the grocery store shelf to see Isabela waving at him, tripping down the aisle towards him.

“Isabela,” he greeted her. “It’s been some time.”

“You do notice these things, don’t you, sweet thing?” She grinned at him, now right in front of him. “Funny running into you here. Didn’t know you shopped at the Free Market.”

“Good prices.”

“You seem like a Hightown type.”

“I suppose I am,” Fenris replied, uncertain where the conversation was headed. “But I can only just cover rent. It’s good to—“

“No need to get defensive. Just making conversation. Hey, if you live around here, do you want to go Antivan dancing with me sometime?”

“’Go?’”

Isabela hoisted her shopping basket over her shoulder and nodded. “I have a friend who runs some casual social dances in the Antivan style,” she said. “He teaches beginners in the first fifteen minutes. Very sensual, very pretty stuff. Gets all the _emotion_ flowing through your veins,” she said with a knowing little smile. Fenris’s bag of apples felt a little slick; he put it in his basket and wiped his hand sweat off on his jeans. “Hawke is welcome to come, too,” she continued when he didn’t answer. “I haven’t heard from her lately, but from the sounds of it, you have.”

He flushed and didn’t know why. “Yes, we’ve been playing cards.”

“Have you? Good. Tell her she’s invited. Tell her it’s Thursday nights at the Crow’s Nest in Lowtown. Not too far from here. Tell her—“ Isabela stopped, somber. “Tell her I’ll be there, sweet thing. You’ll do that, won’t you?”

He waved a hand of farewell at her as she breezed past him, basket swaying in the crook of her arm.

* * *

 

“No, no, stop,” Director Pavus interrupted. He waved his hands, fingers like a swarm of angry bees, until all the dancers stood still. Fenris tensed, waiting to be berated, but this time, Diana was the target.

“You there. Odette. That’s your name.” Diana lifted her chin and straightened her back. “No, don’t move. You’re Odette. You’re Odile. You’re no one else.”

“Yes.”

“Be quiet and listen to me. The rest of your company is relying on you; they’ve all been working hard to make sure Odette shines, that every eye attached to every body in every seat is on you during this scene. What have you been doing?”

Diana’s eyes were bright.

“Slacking off, that’s what.” The hairs on Pavus’s mustache stood out against the redness of his face. “Siegfried.”

Fenris didn’t move.

“If Siegfried can get his shit together and actually look like he gives a damn about this part, then you can, too. Start from the top.”

* * *

 

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Fenris snarled, throwing down his cards. Merrill patted his arm, and he shook her off.

“Bad day?” Marian asked as Aveline plucked up her winnings from the center of the table.

“I don’t want to talk about dancing,” the irritated loser said shortly. Everyone drew a new hand except for him.

“I think he had a bad day,” Merrill said quietly.

“I said I didn’t want to talk about dancing.”

“Hawke, you’re up,” Aveline said.

“Sure.”

“No, wait,” Fenris interrupted, smoothing out his hair in an impatient gesture. “I do want to talk about dancing. Hawke, I forgot to tell you something last week. I ran into Isabela.”

The table went quiet. The Hanged Man buzzed around their little pocket of silence.

“And what did Isabela say?” Aveline asked politely. Marian hmmed assent, the tone more high-pitched than usual.

“She wanted to invite you to….to…I think it was Antivan dancing? She invited all of us, I believe. But she said it was at a place called The Crow’s Nest, in Lowtown. Thursday nights. She knows the owner.” Fenris slid his old cards into the discard pile and drew a new hand. “She said to tell you she’ll be there.”

“Hawke, I don’t know what happened between the two of you,” Aveline said when Marian stayed silent, “but this invitation doesn’t sound hostile to me.”

“It probably isn’t hostile,” Marian said, trying to be breezy about it. “I probably just fucked it up.”

That definitely didn’t sound breezy.

“You sometimes do read too much into the situation,” Aveline cautioned her, not seeming to notice the way both Merrill and Fenris had tensed up. “Remember, Hawke, that people have their own lives to lead. Maybe Isabela didn’t even realize you were upset.”

“Can we talk about something else? I’ll call Isabela later,” Marian added at Aveline’s disapproving look. “We can all go dancing together.”

“She didn’t say what exact type of dance it was,” Fenris chimed in.

“Oh, would you come?” Merrill asked, clapping her hands together. “Fenris, you haven’t come out with us since the rave! That was fun, wasn’t it?”

“I come here, do I not?”

“It’s not the same!”

“You should come,” Marian found herself saying. Fenris turned away from Merrill to meet her gaze. The room narrowed its focus. “It would be great if—well, it would mean a lot to me.”

His black brows furrowed together. “Of course I will. I was invited.”

* * *

 

Fenris stepped out of the shower to hear the distant buzzing of his landline. He threw a towel around his waist and scurried out of the bathroom, wincing as the cooler apartment air hit his skin. Picking up the phone and slightly out of breath, he growled a greeting into the receiver.

“Fenris? Is that you?”

“Hawke.” He sighed, somehow feeling even more naked than he already was. “Yes, it is.”

“I wasn’t sure I had the right number. My handwriting is really bad.”

“Right.” He’d given her the number as soon as his landlord had set it up properly, but hadn’t really expected her to call. Nor had he expected to remember the number correctly. “Well, it’s me.”

“Okay.” Fenris heard her inhale. “I’m not calling you at a bad time, am I?”

“Are you all right?”

“Huh? Yeah. Oh, I’m asking a lot of questions.” She chuckled and hurried to elaborate. “I’m actually just wondering—you’re in some production of _Swan Lake_ , right? I know with the year coming to an end you’re probably still in rehearsal, so do you have any off days coming up? Any off Thursdays?”

“Uhm…let me check.” Fenris padded over to the kitchen calendar, the towel slipping slightly as he went. “Shit.” He fixed it.

“Everything good?”

“Yes.” He squinted at the calendar, waiting for the letters to wobble into words. “Uh, I have next Thursday off.”

“Awesome, I was hoping you would!” What sounded like a chip bag crinkled over the receiver like static. Fenris’s mouth filled with saliva at the thought of salt.

“Is this about Isabela’s friend?”

“Yeah. I called her. Um, everything’s fine. With us. I think.” He could almost see her chewing her pink lip in embarrassment.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m trying not to. You said you’d come, right? She said she was wrong, it’s not Antivan. It’s called bachata. Type of social dance. Have you done social dancing before?”

“No. She said there would be beginner sessions at the start, anyway.”

“True. Wow, big talk from you! No scoffing at ‘beginner’ or even a ‘all dancing is the same!’”

She was right, he realized. The apartment AC bit into the droplets on his skin. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind.

“Did I stun you into silence?”

“It seems so,” he said with a little laugh. “All right. Where should I meet you next Thursday?”

Hawke gave him the address, and he wrote it on the kitchen calendar. It didn’t seem too far, and he didn’t trust parking his car in Lowtown and said so.

“Neither would I. Hey, thanks, Fenris.”

“No problem.”

“I wasn’t bothering you, was I?”

“No.” He paused, then thought for a moment. “I just got out of the shower.”

A long pause. “Oh.”

“That’s why I was late in picking up the phone.”

“You weren’t late.” The chip bag crinkled into silence. “Are you still there?”

“In the shower? What do you think, Hawke?” He laughed without thinking about offending her.

“No, I meant—shit. I don’t know what I meant,” she said, laughing as well. “Sorry to, um, sorry you’re naked. And talking to me.”

“I’m not sorry,” he replied, feeling the grin and hearing it in his voice. “Talk to you later, Hawke. You weren’t bothering me.”

“Yeah, um, yeah. Talk to you later. See you Thursday—oh! Wear cotton! Something breathable!”

“I will.” The phone beeped dead.

“According to Feynriel, I breathe pretty well,” Fenris said to the silent phone. The AC pricked his skin again. He shook his head—since when did he talk to himself?—and threw the towel aside to get changed.

* * *

 

“You’re on the phone an awful lot,” Gamlen grumbled as she replaced the handheld by the TV. He sat slumped in the armchair, glaring at her instead of the game show he usually glared at.

“Not that much,” Marian replied. Knee-jerk defensive reaction, but knee-jerk defensive reactions were Gamlen’s bread and butter, she realized too late.

“Often enough,” he whined. “You think I have friends calling me at every hour? You think the phone rings, rings, rings while you’re away with people desperate for Gamlen Amell repairs?”

“The phone doesn’t ‘ring, ring, ring’—“

“I haven’t had a decent job in eons, and you’re out dancing at discos, at who knows where, a blighted Antivan whorehouse, and—“

“You’re the one drinking away rent money!” Marian snapped, taking the bait.

“And you’re the one who let her brother get away!” Gamlen struggled to rise from his slump but ended up elbows on his knees, hunched over like a balding gargoyle. “You pissed him off enough to leave, didn’t you? He doesn’t send a fucking copper from his new job and it’s all because of that stupid Hawke pride!”

“So what’s your Amell pride done for rent lately?”

“I’m going to bed,” Gamlen decided, finally rising from his worn recliner. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do. Never did.” He left the room without meeting her eye.

Marian opened her mouth, refusing to let him have the last word, but _that stupid Hawke pride_ echoed in her ears in her uncle’s voice. He would always have the last word even if she did say something.

Once Gamlen’s door slammed shut, she exhaled, a long and shaky sound. Before Carver had left, she’d managed to stay out of these disputes—probably because hating Gamlen was Carver’s thing, not hers. Now, having lost his main target, Gamlen was lashing out at her, and she was easy pickings. She had never been sharp-tongued or had the easy flow for witty banter that the rest of her friend group possessed. The way her uncle’s arguments twisted and curved and dodged logical obstacles to arrive at the real point he wanted to make…Marian simply didn’t have the energy to follow. The whole thing had started with the phone, for the love of Andraste.

A pressed three-piece suit and the flash of a silver cell phone came into focus in her mind. She eyed her own landline, sitting in a spot of shame in its charging dock.

One more call couldn’t really make Gamlen any angrier. Marian stood up and grabbed the phone, punching in digits she could almost remember. The line rang several times before it went to an automated voice mail, and after the beep she whispered into the receiver.

“Hi, brother. It’s Marian.”

* * *

 

Muscles aching under sweat-soaked pajamas greeted Fenris when he woke up. The only detail he could recall from the fading dream was scrubbing coarse feathers off his practice shoes; the more he scrubbed, the more the shoes fell apart in sync with the screeching of birds. Everything else about the nightmare was already gone, and even the sensations of bird cries and painful arches were slipping into the surreal depths of his memory.

It was always soreness and sweat when he woke up these days, and that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Remembering the dream from last night tasted like smoke in his mouth, but the will to ponder whether it had been an unpleasant dream or not dissipated with the sharp tang of morning toothpaste.

Yesterday’s rehearsal had been productive, and now Thursday’s clear schedule left him free to muse about it. Pavus was warming up to him; except for the occasional reminder to keep his back flat, now he nodded and moved on to the next dancer when he watched Fenris dance. Diana, unfortunately, bore the brunt of his ire in lieu of criticizing Fenris’s lack of emotion—or whatever it was Pavus was searching for—but she took his scolding in stride. Word among the company was that Pavus was having difficulty with his son, a young dancer himself, and so a bit of sympathy was necessary for the man.

The other gossip going around had to do with Fenris. This bit he knew only because Diana had told him during one conversation over lunch, and she seemed more amused by it than he was. Apparently, the younger swans had decided Fenris Incaensor was absolutely dreamy, “’the way he just _grabs_ you and stares into your _eyes_ like he’s going to _pluck_ your heart from your very _chest_ , I want him touching _my_ chest,’ and giggles ensue,” Diana had added, ending her imitation of the teenagers, looking like she wanted to giggle herself.

The conversation made him embarrassed just thinking about it this morning. It was true that he’d always had a certain intensity about him when he danced with a partner, but no director or instructor had ever accused him of setting the partner’s heart ablaze with that intensity. But the real embarrassment came from the fact that he knew from exactly where this newfound energy stemmed, and that he also knew he did not want it to end.

Contact dance at Studio Amell had done wonders for his aversion to touching other dancers. When he was at the youth dance center, when Danarius had stepped in one lesson and made him an offer he couldn’t have refused, when Danarius and Hadriana would force his body into proper positions without thought or delicacy or care, when that one instructor…Fenris swallowed his breakfast blueberries with difficulty at the thought and forced more pleasant ones to come to the surface. Somehow, at Studio Amell, being surrounded by some sort of positive emotional energy with strangers all rallying around Hawke’s guidance, he had overcome those memories.

And somehow, in the moments when class would truly begin, and his eyes would close, he always knew where Hawke was dancing. Fenris, holding hands with some woman for an instant before a different man pressed against his shoulder and turned, could inhale and smell Hawke’s skin inches away. At first, he tried to distance himself, but the flow of the music and the energy of the class prevented any calculated movement.

They would end up in a tangle of too many limbs and easy breathing, or else just the two of them, fabric against fabric and skin against skin. And when Fenris returned to Ballet Magisterium, either later in the day or later in the week, he could recall the feeling of Hawke’s heartbeat through her red sports bra or the slide of her arm against his back or something _worse_ with each new partner that touched him. If he could isolate the positive social interaction at Studio Amell, if he could separate his overwhelming hunger from the overall communal joy, then maybe the younger girls and boys would shut up.

It was hard to keep that mortification from his mind today, and meeting Hawke this early evening wasn’t doing any favors for his nerves.

* * *

 

The weather had gone from flurries to fat snowflakes in what felt like minutes. Marian stamped her feet outside The Crow’s Nest and felt her numb toes fizzle in protest. Merrill had promised to show up “at six exactly,” and the bank across the street displayed digital numbers blinking two minutes past.

That’s what she got for showing up early.

She could hear the even-earlier-birds inside buzzing with excitement, and every few minutes, a pedestrian would turn off the sidewalk and swerve into the building. More than seven people had followed that path in the last ten minutes.

“Hawke!”

Marian looked up, nose pressed decidedly against her frayed scarf, and saw what looked like a giant downy coat swallowing Merrill whole. A gloved hand reached up and waved from the belly of the beast while a much larger shadow sulked behind. Marian’s mouth went dry.

“Hey, Merrill,” she said as the pair approached. “Hi, Carver.”

“Marian,” Carver said with a nod too curt for his age and maturity level. “Can we get inside? I’m freezing.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Marian responded. “I’m just waiting for Fenris.” Merrill grinned and gave her a thumbs up before swinging open the door and heading into the studio. Carver made to follow her, but Marian eked out a hand from her hoodie pocket and grabbed his arm.

Carver bristled, but Marian poked her nose and mouth out of the scarf to say, “Thanks for coming.” He looked away, and her heart sank. She relinquished her grip on his arm.

“I’m glad I could make it,” he said, still not looking at her. His hair was coated in a thin layer of snowflakes not yet melted, like the layer of dandruff that had plagued him when he was thirteen. His jaw stood out against his face, pale in the winter, and his eyelashes stuck together with cold. She fixed her gaze on his face, locking the image away in her memory, hoping she could store it somewhere not bitter.

“You’re going to freeze in that hoodie,” Carver said. “You should come inside.” With that, he moved past her and followed Merrill’s earlier path. Warmth and laughter billowed out of the studio for an instant, then cut off when the door clicked shut.

“Hawke?” A new voice from the outside sounded to her right. Marian shoved her hand back in her hoodie pocket and smiled at Fenris through frozen cheeks. He didn’t smile back, nor did he come forward.

“Hey,” she said anyway. “Wanna head on in?”

His eyes darted towards the door, then away, then up to the snowflakes, never landing on her face. “All right,” he said once his flitting eyes moved towards the door again. He walked forward, limbs stiff and movement jerky. Marian nudged the door open with her elbow and held it open, and he went inside without another word.

Warmth and chatter greeted her as she followed. As she and Fenris hung up their coat and hoodie, paid the five sovereigns for entry, and worked their way into the dance hall, the heat and noise increased. Around thirty people were gathered inside, clumped into little groups talking amongst themselves. Merrill and Carver stood apart, and Merrill waved the two of them over.

As they wove their way towards them, a blur of jewelry and skirt rushed over to Marian and swooped her up in a hug. Marian breathed in Isabela’s soap and hugged back, her friend’s skin warming her frozen fingers and the embrace unknotting the tension in her stomach.

“Isabela,” Marian apologized, but Isabela only clung tighter for a moment, cutting her off through sheer force of squeeze. After a moment, they disentangled. Isabela seized Fenris in an equally fierce, though shorter, hug, then pulled back to drag a man forward, his unruly blond hair bright in the rather dim room.

“Kitten, Fen,” she introduced them, “this is Zevran Arainai, our instructor for the evening. Zevran, this is Hawke and Fenris.”

“Charmed,” Zevran said, cupping Marian’s offered hand in a limp handshake. “Kitten, was it?”

“Everyone calls me Hawke,” Marian responded stoutly, but Zevran chuckled.

“And Fenris. It’s a pleasure. Have either of you danced _bachata_ before?” He shook Fenris’s hand with the same weak handshake before wrapping an arm around Isabela’s waist. _Oh_. But no plummeting of Marian’s heart into her stomach ensued. She looked to Fenris, hoping he would speak first.

“I have not.” He did. “I know absolutely nothing about it.”

“A beginner, then!” The instructor lolled his head towards Isabela. “ _Amora_ , you did not tell me you were bringing four beginners to my little session. Such pressure on me!”

“Oh, hush, Zev,” Isabela said, rolling her eyes. “I’m sure they’ll all love it. The only one who might give you trouble is Carver, and he actually showed up thanks to Hawke, so maybe he’s in a good mood.” She nodded Carver’s direction, and Marian could practically feel Fenris’s muscles tense.

While imagining feeling Fenris’s muscles probably wasn’t a useful thought process at the moment, it did give her cause for concern. They hadn’t spoken in a few days, since his schedule and hers had been busy; hopefully inviting him hadn’t been the worst idea Marian’d had yet. But he’d _offered_ to come, hadn’t he?

“—should probably begin,” Zevran was saying, punctuating his sentence by turning his Isabela-holding arm—and thus Isabela—away from the pair of them. “We must teach these babies how to dance, must we not?”

“So condescending,” Isabela chided, then wiggled her fingers over Zevran’s shoulder at her. “Have fun, kitten.”

* * *

 

“—to the left. One, two, three, step. Five, six, seven. Then the lead, push your combined weight to the outside—“

She had been holding him. Not quite holding him, but touching him, in a way that suggested they knew each other well.

“—leads, push your shoulders in this direction when you—“

Fenris had stood watching the two of them for at least a few seconds, but perhaps he should have made his presence known earlier. He hadn’t overheard any part of their conversation, hadn’t wanted to. Maybe that, too, had been a mistake.

“—ah, _amora_! Notice, follows: she moves her hips so enticingly. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, she is _stunning_ —“

He thought he knew Hawke pretty well at this point, but there was still so much he didn’t know. Who was Carver to her?

“We’ll practice. Beginners, grab a partner and do what you do best: begin!”

Fenris turned towards Hawke and offered his hand to her, quick as lightning. Behind her, Merrill had pounced upon Carver, and he was placing his hands on hers with all the grace and clunk of a dumpster on ice. Fucker couldn’t even _dance_ —

Touch, familiar touch, and his heart stuttered for a moment, as it always did. Hawke looked just past him, somewhere around his ears, and smiled, scooping his hands into the proper position. “Shall we?”

Fenris swallowed and gave a jerky nod as drums filled the air. _One, two, three, step_ , was it? One, two, three, step, five, six, seven. One, two, three, he stepped on her foot, “venhedis,” she laughed, five, six, seven.

“Stop looking at her shoes, Fenris!” Zevran called out. “She is much too lovely for you to focus on those shoes! They are beautiful shoes, kitten,” he added with a toothy grin as Hawke glared at him.

“Damn straight they are,” Hawke muttered to her flats, then looked up at him as they continued to step around each other. Her blue eyes pierced through him, and he fought the instinct to look away. The irritation faded from her features. One, two, three, step, five, six, seven. Her freckles seemed less prominent from the last time he’d been this close. Fenris swallowed again. Winter would do that to a person, he supposed, but—

“All right, beginners!” Zevran’s voice broke through again. “I hereby promote you to ‘ready-to-starters!’ Our fifteen minutes have ended and we must accommodate the masses! Find a new partner!”

Behind Zevran and Isabela, directly in Fenris’s line of sight, Merrill planted a kiss on Carver’s lips, and Carver wrapped his arms around her briefly in response. Fenris stiffened once more and turned to see how Hawke would react, but a short woman had already offered to lead her in the first dance. The room’s occupants had doubled in size since the start.

“Excuse me,” one of the other female beginners piped up behind him, and bachata began.

* * *

 

It wasn’t too difficult to pick up, once she got started. Marian breezed from one partner to the next asker, happy to stay in the ‘follow’ role for the time being. Before long, the air filled with the happy, sour scent of sweat and movement. Isabela moved with the blond instructor with grace and unmistakable sensuality; Marian couldn’t help but crane her head over her partner’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of the two of them stalking back and forth, hands clasped, desire incarnate.

Carver and Merrill separated only occasionally. She had never actually seen them act as a real couple before until now, and she was relieved that she didn’t have to stomach too much of it. Still, Merrill seemed genuinely to enjoy being twirled by Carver’s uncertain hands, and even her little brother was smiling. It made Marian smile, too, and her partner smiled back as the music died down.

She had sweated a bit through her t-shirt; she had never danced bachata before and found herself growing winded faster. Marian wove her way through the crowd, turning down offers for the next dance, until she arrived at the row of chairs on the side of the room. She collapsed in one of the metal folding ones, laced her fingers together in front of her, and observed the next dance begin.

“Here.” A water bottle, thrust in front of her laced fingers, just within sight, a tattooed hand holding it out to her.

“Thanks.” Marian unscrewed the cap and drank deeply as Fenris turned around to sit next to her. His gray t-shirt looked soft, something good to dance in or sleep in. “You enjoying yourself?” She handed the bottle back to him and his fingers darted out to grab it back. He didn’t look at her.

“Ah, yes.” Comfortable silence rested between the two of them as dancers swung their hips and angled their bodies away from them. Fenris spoke again after a minute or two, the words drawing letter by letter out of his mouth uncertainly. “I didn’t realize, uh, Carver would be here.”

“Yeah,” she answered, puzzled. Fenris lifted the opened water bottle to his lips and took a too-casual sip. Marian tried not to remember the exact spot where her own lips had been on the bottle as she continued, “I’m surprised he’s here. He says he’s always busy with work.”

“Oh?” Fenris didn’t sound terribly interested, despite the question. “Where does he work?”

“He’s—well, he’s not an architect, exactly,” Marian caught herself, remembering the new information. “He works in something like, feasibility or something at an architect’s firm, Stannard & Co.” Fenris took another sip combined with a noise of vague interest. A sweat borne not from exercise broke out on the back of Marian’s neck. “He, uh, remember that time you came to the rave? He had left all his stuff there because he had moved—“

Fenris choked on the next sip of water, and Marian broke off, staring at him with wide eyes, uncertain if she should hit his back. The dancing pair a few feet in front of him turned their heads his direction as he coughed twice and wiped his eyes.

“You okay?”

“Your _brother_ ,” Fenris answered, a bit of a wheeze evident in his voice. “The Carver who—Carver, the baby monster. I wore his shirt.” He coughed again, lifted a tattooed pinky and smeared a tear away from the edge of his left eye.

Marian stared. “Yeah,” she said slowly, remembering. “The baby monster.”

He cleared his throat and turned towards her, a smile slashed in his dark face, eyes finished watering.

“Dear dancers, the time has come for our final dance of the evening!” Marian started at the sound of Zevran’s voice as the music cut off.  “And then I send you all to stumble home. We all need to enjoy what is left of this snowy night, no?”

Touch. Familiar touch. Fenris’s hand on hers. “Shall we?”

* * *

 

Her leg slipped between both of his and he nearly stumbled. Fenris had already established that he was an idiot—thanks, Carver the _brother_ and his faithless memory—and now he was botching the basic step. But he found he didn’t care about impressing her, or following the beat with the same easy sensuality and grace that the lithe Zevran displayed. Hawke held his hand with confidence, pressing it against her hip when she turned backwards.

She stepped on his foot once and Fenris wanted to feel her touch more. He grabbed her hand a little too quickly twice and she winced one of those times and he wanted to kiss her. He stopped her from dancing too close to his hips after a certain point and wished he hadn’t, wished he could be as brazen as Zevran and Isabela on the floor, wished he could hold her as closely as Carver was shyly holding Merrill.

He wanted, he wanted…he didn’t know what he wanted. He wanted to press her against his skin and taste her vitality. He wanted to run. He wanted her to run after him. He wanted to dance with her all evening, all night, all morning, wanted to stop immediately.

The music stopped. The night was over. People were cheering and chattering and hugging goodbye, and Fenris and Hawke stood, smiling breathlessly.

“This is the first time tonight you’ve looked at me,” Hawke said, finally disentangling her hands from his vicelike grip. He inhaled sharply, prepared to offer apologetic excuses. “It’s nice,” she said. Fenris could feel his ears burning as he mumbled something incoherent.

“Sister, I’m taking Merrill home,” Carver popped up as suddenly and uninvited as an ant infestation. “Thank you for inviting us.” Merrill clung to his arm, eyes dark with something Fenris hadn’t considered Merrill could possess. Irrational jealousy gripped him once more, and by the time he’d composed himself, Hawke was waving goodbye to the pair.

“So,” she said after they’d departed. Fenris nodded, alert once more. “I guess we should get our coats before they get stolen, right?”

Oh. “No one’s going to steal your hoodie,” he teased, falling back on fear.

“It makes a car alarm noise when anyone else puts it on, so I suppose we’ll find out in a moment,” Hawke replied, making her way towards the coat room. He was losing sight of her through the exiting crowd. There was an opportunity here, a clever response, but some _asshole_ cut in front of him and she disappeared.

“Ah, my friend,” a mocking voice sounded in his ear. Zevran, the dance instructor, and Isabela had materialized behind him. “’Does it moan when someone else takes it off?’ That would have been a good response.”

“That is a _terrible_ response,” Isabela disagreed. “Referring to Hawke as ‘it?’ Don’t dehumanize her like that.”

Fenris grabbed his down coat off the hook as soon as the crowd drifted him its direction and hurried out the door as fast as he could manage.

Outside, the bite of winter air soothed the hot embarrassment in his stomach. At least home was a short walk away, but it certainly gave him enough time to dwell on all the idiocies he’d committed tonight. Imagining her younger brother—whom he’d _known_ about and simply _forgotten_ —as a former lover and getting jealous of all things; dancing terribly; misreading all her signals and then being on the receiving end of Isabela and Zevran’s torturous remarks—

Hadriana stepped out of the bar he was about to pass. Fenris caught a glimpse of her hair and smelled her usual cocktail and was ducking behind the nearest dumpster before he had time to rationalize. Fortunately, she looked too drunk to notice his quick movement. She wobbled down the stairs and turned in the opposite direction, away from where he knew a metro stop was, no coat and open-toed sandals. He could hear shouting from the bar inside as the door opened and someone called out to her, but he could no longer see from around the dumpster. Fenris waited a few more moments, heart racing as he peeked around the corner of the dumpster. Her tottering frame was a block away, and her friend was nowhere in sight.

Fenris rounded the corner and cut through an alley, moving quickly past a passed-out drunk and exiting on the other side. He was closer to home this way and hopefully farther away from Hadriana, but he took no chances as he ran for his apartment. Inside, he threw off his coat and kicked off his shoes, sinking down on the bed.

What had she been doing in Lowtown on a weeknight? Was she looking for him? Danarius must be searching for him at this point, and it would hardly take a legion of spies to find him. Fenris ran his hands through his hair, a nervous habit at this point. They couldn’t do anything to him, he reminded himself. There was nothing legally tying him to that man anymore.

The landline rang, and Fenris’s blood ran cold. He let it ring, let it go to the automated voicemail.

“Hey, Fenris.” Hawke. She exhaled. “Just wanted to make sure you got home okay. I did.”

He stood up and grabbed the phone off the dock. “Hey, Hawke.”

“Oh!”

“I just got in.”

“Oh.” She didn’t say anything for a moment. “You’re really close to the Lowtown border, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. It’s a nicer area than Lowtown, though.” He forced himself to smile. “No offense, though.”

“None taken, Lowtown’s shit,” she laughed, sounding more relaxed. “Anyway, I had a really good time tonight.”

“I did, too.”

“I thought so.” Her voice was higher-pitched now. “Did…were you doing anything else this evening?”

She was offering, he would bet anything that she wanted to come over, he would place his life on it.

“I can’t,” he heard himself saying, too reasonably. “I…now’s not a good time.”

“Oh! Oh, sorry.” More higher-pitched. Embarrassed.

“No, no,” Fenris cut her off without meaning to. “Really. It’s just—I’ll explain. But not now. I’d…I’d like to…talk.” Yes. Talk. How sexy.

“You mean about—“

_Fasta vass_. “Yes, eventually. But for now, can you…you’re not doing anything?”

“No.”

“Just…” He sighed, and it sounded pathetic even to his own ears. “Tell me something. Talk to me about something. I’ll explain, but not…now. How’s…” Fenris trailed off, struggling to ask something about her life.

“My sister is coming in the spring,” she offered. “She goes to ballet school.”

“Ballet?” He leapt upon the topic, relief flooding his system so quickly he felt light-headed. “What’s her name?”

“Bethany. Can you remember that much at least?” Fenris laughed at that, the sound loud and perhaps not quite sane. Either way, it seemed to perk Hawke back up. “Think you can stand my sister hugging me when she comes?”

“Fuck,” Fenris laughed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I was hoping—“

“Oh, believe me, I noticed,” Hawke said, and he knew he wasn’t imagining the flirtatious drawl to her voice. “I don’t think you have much to worry about.”

“So she’s coming in the spring,” Fenris threw the red herring.

“Yes, she’s…”

By the time they hung up, by the time Fenris slid under the sheets, his pulse was thrumming and his heart racing. He hoped he could look Bethany in the face when she arrived without blushing.

But the last thought he had before slipping into unconsciousness was one of fear.


	10. Scène: Allegro, Tempo di valse, Allegro vivo

The weeks passed in a paranoid haze. Fenris changed up his walk home from the Hanged Man, sometimes taking the bus or the metro. He drove more regularly to Ballet Magisterium, and there he tried to deal with Argento Balendin, Danarius’s casual acquaintance, as little as possible. Danarius had eyes all over Hightown, and now, it seemed Hadriana prowled Lowtown. Nowhere was safe.

The one consolation he had was Hawke. She called—or sometimes he did—almost every other evening. Sometimes the conversations lasted less than fifteen minutes.

“Hey, it’s me! Your favorite dancer!”

“There aren’t too many dancers whose presence I tolerate, let alone favor.”

“That’s a lie. You like my friends, and I assume you get along with your company. How was rehearsal?”

“It was uneventful. I have to be careful on my pliés, of all things—I think I may have overexerted my inner thighs.”

“Yikes.”

“Good thing I have off tomorrow. Did you have a lesson today?”

“Yeah. Kids’ contemporary. They missed you.”

“I’m sure.”

Sometimes he didn’t get home until later than Hawke called, due to his new routes. She usually left messages on his voicemail.

“Hey, Fenris. It’s me, Hawke. It’s about eight. Hope you had a good day! Saw a dance quote today that made me think of you: ‘I do not try to dance better than anyone else. I only try to dance better than myself.’ Something to inspire you in the weeks to come. Talk to you later.”

He didn’t erase those messages until his voicemail box became full. Some conversations were longer, more important.

“I have a question, if that’s all right,” she said one night. The year was drawing to a close, and the pressure was on for the springtime debut. Fenris had readily admitted to her that he’d absorbed some of his director’s tension. He’d already apologized for snapping at Merrill last Saturday, but the group walked eggshells around him now.

“Anything,” he said, cradling the phone against his shoulder while he chopped a tomato for his salad.

“You told me before you…you dance because you’re indebted to someone. Someone you ran away from.”

His knife stilled. Tomato juice and tomato seeds squished as he let the knife slip from his fingers onto the cutting board. Fenris made a noise of assent into the receiver.

“Is there anything I—anything any of us can do to help? Help you?”

Fenris moved away from the kitchen and sat down on his futon. He ran a hand through his short white ponytail, fingers catching on a snarl in the strands of hair. “I don’t know. I appreciate the offer, Hawke, but—“

“How did this happen?” she whispered, crackling over the phone.

He paused, extracting his fingers from the knot while he thought over how best to respond. “My mother wanted to keep us—my sister and me—off the streets,” he said slowly. “She enrolled us in a—an after-school kids’ club. We took dance classes there, free classes. She was afraid of being without me in the dance class—she was only seven. So I joined her.”

“Your sister?”

“Varania.” The name stuck in his throat, tasted like cobwebs and must in his mouth. “I know why she was afraid—there were a lot of kids there, almost all there for the same reason we were. They looked big to her.” Fenris and his sister had watched kids phase out of the program, either because they stopped caring, or needed to work, or simply grew too old. Soon, they were the only repeat attendees of the dance sessions. “I was, I don’t know, fourteen—“ of course he knew, “—and I needed to protect her.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Yeah.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes, pressing the phone against his ear with his other hand. “One of the benefactors of the program came to watch the children—watch us—one afternoon, and he took me aside in the middle of the class.”

Fenris could still remember peering over his shoulder, seeing Varania staring back with the eyes they both got from their dead father, both pairs afraid as Danarius asked him his name and age.

“Leto Lernovitch. I’m fourteen.”

Danaris had observed him through hooded eyes in such a way that he could remember feeling distinctly uncomfortable.

“You move like a wolf. With purpose, like you’re searching for something.”

He had bristled at that, flexing his thin arms. “I’m just here for my mother and sister,” he had said. “I don’t care about dancing.”

“I can make you care,” Danarius had said. “I guarantee it.”

Fenris huffed out a sigh, and Hawke piped up over the phone.

“This benefactor saw your talent, I assume.”

“He asked me if I wanted to make sure my family never had to worry about food and rent ever again,” Fenris explained. “I was fourteen. I knew…I knew that was all I wanted. He drove us home in this shining car—I had never been in a car before—and he told my mother everything. She was signing the papers so fast, I…” He made a frustrated sound. “I packed my bags for ballet school the same day.”

“This must be hard. I mean, it must have been hard.”

“Well, ballet school was,” he said with an unamused laugh. “Hard enough for my hair to go white. I had started late and was getting by on sheer talent. As his ward, my benefactor made it abundantly clear that I had to step up my game or get sent home. And I knew my mother wouldn’t be happy about having another mouth to feed, especially when before, her rent was getting paid and her meals covered. So I had to get better. Won awards, contests. He couldn’t throw me out after that. He had to keep me forever.”

“Oh.” Hawke sighed into the receiver, and his skin prickled. “So what happened?”

“Huh?”

“To your sister. Your mother.”

“I…” He swallowed. “I don’t know. It’s terrifying, Hawke. I had to get out. He and Hadriana, they were…I had to get out. But I don’t know even where my family is, where they live. The apartment we had after Seheron…that’s where Studio Amell is.”

“Oh. Fuck. I remember now.”

“Exactly.” Panic seeped into his bones at the mere thought. Danarius had always said his family would “only distract you” with memories of a lost name, a lost life. And eventually, “they would only distract you” morphed into “you’re beyond them now.” He was probably right, Danarius was always—“Hawke. I think he’s going to find me. I saw Hadriana again, after bachata that night.”

“Did she say something again?” He could hear the outrage in her voice, the memory of the first incident in the anger, and it pleased him through the anxiety.

“No, she didn’t see me. But this isn’t the first time I’ve seen her in Lowtown in so many days. I’m…worried. I need to do something.”

“I asked you if you needed help, Fenris.”

“I do. I can’t…” Another frustrated sigh.

“Is it all right if we tell Varric?”

Now his ears perked up. “Varric?”

“Yeah, Varric. He used to manage that apartment complex. That’s how I got into Kirkwall. Long story.”

“What?” Shock rippled through him, knocking the panic senseless. For the moment.

“Yeah. Wanna talk to him tomorrow?”

“ _Kaffas_ ,” he cursed, flitting his eyes to the kitchen calendar even though he already knew his schedule. “We’re doing a promotional photo shoot tomorrow. I’m busy all day into evening.”

“You don’t have rehearsal on New Year’s Eve, do you?” He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. “I’m sure Varric will be having some sort of event for New Year’s.”

“That’s not for three days.”

“Varric visits his brother this Saturday.”

“Oh. I’d forgotten.”

“Come to the Hanged Man,” Hawke encouraged him. “Come for New Year’s. Call Varric and invite yourself over; he loves it when you follow me to these things.”

He smiled at that. “I enjoy following you.”

“There’s a good view from that angle,” she said, high-pitched and embarrassed. Fenris laughed, and he heard her smile when she said, “It would be fun to have you there regardless.”

* * *

 

Donnic swooped around Aveline, an affronted expression on his face as he pretended almost to drop the hot plate of fish on her. She laughed and held up her hands, backing up. “I get it, I get it. I’m in the way.”

Marian smiled and folded her fingers under her chin, resting her head on top. “Never, Aveline.”

“You say that because you’re not married to her,” Donnic said to her with a wink that quickly turned to a grimace as Aveline punched his shoulder, probably a little harder than she meant. Donnic placed the dish on the table and turned, beaming at his wife. “And a wonderful thing it is, to be married to the best officer in the KPD.”

“Oh, stop,” Aveline complained, but she let Donnic peck her cheek and Marian saw her smile. The couple joined Marian at the table and Donnic began serving.

“Carver isn’t joining us, right?” Aveline asked, smearing margarine on a roll. Marian sighed.

“I called him to ask, but he said he was still busy with work. Merrill told me they don’t pay him overtime, so I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling.” Marian cut into her fish and shoved an angry forkful into her mouth. Aveline gave her a disapproving look, and she knew it wasn’t for her poor table etiquette.

“I think you’re overanalyzing again,” Aveline disagreed. “This is his first job with tax benefits and a far cry from working as a bouncer at the Keep for three weeks. He’s probably giving it his all, trying to make a good impression.”

“His boss says she met him at a career fair,” Marian complained, moody. “Obviously he impressed her—he didn’t even go to Dumar University! I don’t think he needs to try harder.”

“And that’s why you’re never going to amount to much,” Donnic teased her. Marian glowered, and Donnic became somber. “Hawke, your brother has always had an enormous chip on his shoulder. It must have been hard growing up the only member of your family who didn’t dance.”

“I know,” Marian sulked, but Aveline interrupted any further whining.

“What I think Donnic is being too nice to say is that Carver doesn’t do everything because of you,” she pointed out. “In fact, I’d be willing to bet he’s working his hardest to ensure his life responds to you as little as possible.” Marian stirred small pieces of fish and carrots around on her plate, looking down. Aveline continued, kinder. “That doesn’t mean he wants you out of it. He just needs a little distance so he can shine best.”

“I know,” Marian answered, this time with less pout. When Aveline still looked too motherly, she chirped, “Speaking of shining, what about work? Donnic told me in the kitchen that everyone’s quite taken with you.”

Donnic smiled beatifically when Aveline turned to him with a glare not quite fierce enough. She set to work on her fish when he continued to grin. “I don’t know about that,” she said briskly, “but they’re assigning me more interesting tasks now.”

“Aveline is on a job,” Donnic told Marian in a mock-serious whisper.

“I can’t talk too much about it, but I’m sure you’ve heard about the vandalizing and arson cases at those factories and clubs,” Aveline acknowledged.

“Gamlen hogs the TV for game shows. Haven’t heard too much about it.”

“Well, I’ll tell you nothing the news wouldn’t say, but it looks to be an organized movement. There’s some security footage, and it doesn’t look like teenagers or isolated incidents.”

“Aveline the detective.”

“I’m not working with the PIs. I’m basically the muscle,” Aveline said with a shrug.

“Don’t listen to her,” Donnic told Marian. “The captain knew Aveline had experience with this type of crowd, and furthermore, she’s been doing such good work on the force that she was practically handpicked.” Aveline flushed and muttered something incomprehensible.

“Oh, Aveline,” Marian smiled, “we all told you this happened because of your own merits.”

Aveline met her gaze with a pleased smile of her own. The smile grew when Donnic rubbed her left hand with pride, but she was quick to change the subject once they set to their dinner once more. Marian could see the remnants of that pleased look on Aveline’s face the rest of the night.

* * *

 

Fenris reached down to touch his toes, each vertebrae popping with the movement. His muscles were sore after sitting so long in the chair hair and makeup had thrust him in, and where he’d been for hours. As he stood up again, the black of his newly styled hair startled him. It was bound to startle him for the rest of the day, he was sure.

“Serah Incaensor!” Fenris flinched at the name and twisted his neck trying to turn to face the speaker. She was a short, pale-skinned woman with red hair beaming at him and wiggling her fingers his direction. “Hi, Serah Incaensor—“

“Fenris. Please.”

“And I’m Dagna,” Dagna replied with cheer. “I’m from costuming. You ready to get fitted, or—?“

“Lead the way,” he said, following her into the throng of half-dressed dancers.

* * *

 

Varric had festooned the inside of the Hanged Man with balloons, banners, and streamers. The tables and bar he had strewn with confetti, the doors were locked, and he had even dragged in a decently sized TV where they could watch a New Year’s countdown from City Hall. Varric himself had even allowed Merrill to tuck a party hat around his ears and on his head, and now he was chatting with her, Anders, and Marian, for once not behind the bar, but Marian’s gaze and attention kept wandering.

Isabela was late, which wasn’t a surprise. Donnic was out on patrol, which left Aveline’s RSVP uncertain. Carver was coming soon, according to Merrill. And Fenris was supposed to be here by now.

“Getting a flower would be plain silly,” Merrill said in disagreement with something Varric had just said.

Marian turned back to her friends, reaching to the coffee table to grab her drink. Varric had whipped up something he called a “Pomegranate Champagne Royal,” and it was good if a little sour—and early for champagne. She made an inquisitive noise.

“You weren’t listening, Hawke?”

“Sorry, Merrill,” Marian huffed, and Merrill’s frown crinkled into a smile as she pointed at Anders.

“I want a tattoo!”

Marian blinked at Anders. Anders sipped his drink. No tattoos were visible. “Does Anders have a tattoo?”

“I’ve always had tattoos, Hawke.” He rolled up a sleeve. “See? That’s my cat on this one—“

“Shit, I forgot about Ser Pounce-A-Lot,” Marian laughed.

“Now that’s just rude, to forget about—“

“I have one, too,” Varric said with a grin, “but it’s not polite to show you in public—“

“What, is it on your—“

Anders cut Marian off with a “We’re in your own blasted bar, Varric!”

“It’s on my thigh. No one but Bianca needs to see that.”

Anders and Marian groaned, half-teasing, but Merrill swatted him. Anders grinned at her, and something told Marian he wasn’t quite sober when he asked, “Does Carver have any tattoos?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Marian said confidently just as Merrill piped up with, “Yes, a dog! The opposite of you, Anders!”

“Didn’t need to know that about Junior.”

“Me neither,” Marian grimaced, taking another sip. The pomegranate juice was going down easier now.

Anders laughed again, and Merrill hurried to correct them all. “It’s on his upper arm!”

“I just got something on my upper arm,” Anders said, and someone banged on the front door.

“Show me!” Merrill squeaked. Marian caught a glimpse of a slender shadow in the door and rose from the couch. Anders shrugged out of his jacket and prepared to roll up his other sleeve, but she turned away and headed on tipsy toes towards the door. She unlocked it.

Fenris leaned against the doorway, appearing well bundled in his black down coat, blue hat, and red scarf. “Hawke,” he said, voice muffled through the scarf. The tips of his ears matched his scarf.

“Come on in.” She stepped aside and he hurried past her, peeling off his hat and scarf. “Your hair,” she said in surprise.

“Yes.”

“Gone grey in your old age?” His hair was shorter, much shorter, than she’d last seen it. It almost looked prim now. But what was most shocking was how his usual stark white had muted to a deep, chalky color.

“Hey, Broody. You’re late.”

Fenris made an ungentlemanly noise. “I was trying to wash the dye out of my hair from the photoshoot. Again. I think it needs another day.”

“They made you dye your hair? Here,” and Marian helped him take off his coat. Fabric slid against fabric, and she tried to be casual in her movements. The muscles in his arm made the white tattoos apparent as he tensed.

“’Principal dancers need to stand out, but not that much, Fenris,’” Fenris imitated a voice not his own, then made a face. “Yes. My director insisted. It’ll have to be for the actual performances, too.”

“Well, come in and drink that thought away,” Marian said, but Merrill cried out in delight just as she pulled Fenris over to them.

“I guess white tattoos must be in fashion!” she was squealing to Anders, but Anders was already rolling down his sleeve.

“What’s going on?” Fenris asked, settling down on the sofa where Varric sat. “Gossiping about me?”

“Not everything’s about you,” Anders said with not enough bite, but he slid back into his green hoodie, and the conversation switched elsewhere before Marian could register how nervous he looked when he said it.

* * *

 

Fenris approached Varric only once everyone else had settled into a reasonable buzz of excitement and alcohol. Isabela helped move the attention away from him when she breezed into the bar with Zevran at her side, and even Aveline—who had apparently decided she needed a night out, husband be damned—had been charmed when he’d started to teach her the basic bachata steps. Now that the other revelers were suitably distracted, Fenris slid onto the couch where Varric presided over the bar.

“Broody,” Varric greeted him with a little nod and smile.

“Varric.” Fenris rubbed his palms together. They felt a little sweaty, now that he was actually about to ask. “So…” Rub, rub. “So, I notice you hardly comment on our dancing and such.” Why was this so hard?

“It’s a lot of people in skirts. I get our friends mixed up sometimes.”

That made Fenris laugh loud enough to startle Anders from where he was dancing with Hawke, and he looked over her shoulder to peer Fenris and Varric’s way. Hawke, for her part, nudged his hands back into the proper position. Fenris looked away. “I highly doubt it’s as simple as that. The subject comes up all the time.”

Varric snorted and took a sip of his whiskey. “Tell me about it.” He shook the tumbler, ice cubes clinking, and fixed Fenris with a somber expression. “I’ve been around these guys for a while, and I’ve seen them fight for about as long. Anders with his rage,” he gestured the tumbler to the man, “Merrill with her excitement, the Rivaini who doesn’t give a fuck, you with your artistic brooding, and Hawke…” Varric took another sip. “Hawke with her passion.”

“And no opinion? One way or the other?”

“Opinions are like testicles. You kick them hard enough, doesn’t matter how many you got.”

Fenris crossed his legs. “That’s…something.”

“I was here when Carver up and left,” Varric said after a moment. Fenris’s hands had dried, and he was almost ready to speak when Varric continued. “I think it’s all great for people to find things they really care about, things that make ‘em want to keep living. But passions can get people into bad situations. Get into fights, get into trouble, break up families…” Varric grinned at him, a little self-consciously, Fenris thought. “I don’t really know where I’m going with this. I guess I’m just worried about our little pack of bohemians.”

“I am, too,” Fenris confessed. He ran a hand through the back of his short greyish hair. Anders and Zevran passed by in deep conversation, and he paused. Zevran poured Anders a drink from the bar, but Fenris lowered his voice anyway. “I suppose you’re right in that passions can…ignite easily. Burn other things.”

“I don’t know if I’m right. I don’t know what I’m saying.” He sighed and leaned back against the couch. “D’you have something more cheerful to talk to me about?”

“No,” Fenris chuckled. “Hawke…She said you might know something. About my family.”

“Me?”

“She said you used to own the apartment complex where Studio Amell is.”

“Shit.” Varric rubbed his free hand around his jaw. “Yeah, I did. Now that’s a weird story. Your family used to live there, really?”

“Yes. Until the studio was built. What happened in between then?”

“Like I said, a weird story.” The TV blared behind them, alerting them of fifteen minutes until countdown. “Hold on, I gotta pour champagne.” Varric stood with a little difficulty from the cushy sofa, then began filling the champagne flutes on the coffee table from the already-opened bottle. Fenris cast his gaze around the room while he waited, his eyes eventually settling on Carver and Merrill, speaking in low tones against the dull roar of the party. Carver’s eyes crinkled at something she said, his face so full of affection and simple pleasure that it made Fenris’s heart hurt just to see.

He was free now, he reminded himself. He could choose his own life, make his own decisions. The pang in his chest thudded softly, and he began searching the room—

  “All right. What were we talking about?”

Fenris snapped his attention back to Varric, settling down on the couch once more. “What happened to—“

“Right. You know the blight that plagued Ferelden, right? Hit Hawke’s family pretty hard. Killed her father. You know this.”

“I know that she doesn’t like talking about it—or how she paid you back for getting them into the city.”

“Yeah, probably because that was a Stannard & Co. deal,” Varric said, watching Fenris’s eyebrows shoot up. “Yep. Junior ran off to the big, bad architect firm that gave the Hawkes entry into Kirkwall.”

Fenris looked past Carver and Merrill’s swaying, quietly talking forms to Hawke. She and Isabela were dancing together now, gently swaying to the pop music pouring from the TV speakers. Isabela’s mouth moved, and Hawke threw back her head and laughed. “Her anger at him seems…”

“Childish? It is.”

“Human.”

Varric shrugged. “Anyway, Broody, it wasn’t me that tore down your family home, and I didn’t really know anyone personally except the landlord. That complex was going to get torn down no matter what, and Stannard & Co. was looking for someone to buy one of the shops they were gonna build around the same time I bumped into Hawke at the docks. Hawke gave the inheritance from her dad to me, she got a studio, and the rest is history.” Fenris hmmed in response, and Varric continued more kindly, “Look, you got a picture or something? A name?”

Fenris pulled a crumpled photo out of the back pocket of his jeans. “This is the last picture I received. It’s my sister when she was sixteen. Last year. Varania Lernovitch.”

“You kind of look like a guy who’d be named Lernovitch,” Varric said, taking the photo. “Fenris Lernovitch.”

“Leto Lernovitch,” Fenris corrected him, then pursed his lips. “It’s not really my name anymore.”

“Hm. You both have the same eyes. Freaky.”

“It’s almost as if we’re siblings.” He didn’t look at Varric, even as the other man pulled out reading glasses. He knew exactly what the photo looked like, her red hair long and tangled, her eyes crinkled in a smile. A school photo, but which school, he had no idea.

“She looks familiar. I’ll ask around.”

“Varric—“ Fenris cut himself off before he could command his friend, but Varric picked up on what he didn’t dare say.

“I’ll pretend it’s for my own interests. I’ve never seen you in my life.”

Fenris swallowed and nodded, hoping his gratitude showed in his face. It must have, because Varric cleared his throat and looked away.

“So…you and Hawke?”

So that was Varric’s idea of a more pleasant subject. Fenris’s eyes darted back to her and Isabela. Hawke caught his gaze over Isabela’s shoulder and disentangled herself. She began walking towards them, a shamelessly happy smile reddening her cheeks.

“What about us?”

“I want to make sure I get all the details right when I tell this story.” Fenris’s heart stuttered to a halt when Hawke reached them, but Varric kept talking. “So, Hawke, did Fenris sweep you off your feet? Or was it the other way around?”

“Well,” Hawke said, but then paused, looking at Fenris, and in the pause Fenris rose from his uncomfortable perch on the sofa so the tip of his nose was level with hers. He heard her intake of breath before he placed one hand on her back and pushed her oh-so-gently, scooping up her legs as she tottered. He had one glorious vision of her eyes, wide and blue and delighted, before he adjusted his grip on her and kissed her, breathlessly and belatedly.

She tasted like pomegranate and champagne. His fingers curled against her back in the instant her hand reached up and touched his face. Gently. When she pulled back and demanded he let go, it was with shaking hands that he did so.

“Every little bit helps, Broody,” Varric said somewhere behind him.

“Countdown in ten!” the TV screeched, and everyone hurried from their dancing, conversations, and kisses to grab a champagne flute. Fenris and Hawke found themselves surrounded by babbling friends, but when midnight struck and everyone else took cheerful ching-chings, she ignored all the glasses toasted her way and pressed her lips against his cheek.

When they left the Hanged Man together, Fenris didn’t remember to ask Varric for his photo back.

* * *

 

Marian didn’t comment on Fenris’s apartment—clean and minimally decorated, though there was a print of some pastoral Orlesian scene on the wall across from the futon—but after she did hold her ground when he pulled her past the half-wall leading into the sleeping area, his fingers trailing against her wrist.

“Is this going to be like the last time?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as demanding as she wanted to be. Her coat smothered her, made her cheeks feel warmer than they should have. “Are we—are you—“

“No.”

He showed her where to hang her things. They sat on the futon together, her hand on his knee, his hand on her back. He looked at her for a long time, but she kept her lips pressed tightly shut and waited.

“I’m sorry, Hawke.” She waited more. “I hurt you. I wanted things to be…real between us. I didn’t want to be with you because of anger, or because I needed…release.” Fenris breathed out quickly, impatient with his words, and she squeezed his knee encouragingly. He began to trace little circles on her spine as he talked, almost as if he didn’t notice he was doing it. “I wanted you, but—not like that. That doesn’t work for me.” His fingers on her back stilled. “I still do.”

She reached for his face, and he grabbed her hand before it could reach his skin. Marian stared at him, his green eyes dark and serious in the light streaming in from the kitchen, and he pressed the back of her hand against his lips.

“Please,” she whispered, and he glanced up, hopeful. “I do, too. Please.”

“I am yours,” he said, and the distance between them finally closed.

* * *

 

Uncertain, careful first touches—bumping noses, the warm breath of laughter against skin.

“Flames, does that really tickle? Your collarbones?”

An undignified snort as fingers light as thread brushed in sensitive places.

“I didn’t know you could make such sounds.”

“Yes, talk dirty to me, Hawke.”

A kiss against the offended spot in question. He shivered, just barely, but enough for her to see his skin prickle. Her mouth moved up, made its slow progress from his shoulder to his neck to his earlobe. Incomprehensible moaning.

“I knew you could make _that_ sound.”

Not as shyly now—a growl, fingers in her hair turning her face towards him. His lips were soft when they met hers, his tongue hot and insistent. She pressed herself closer, pinning him to the futon, her heart pounding against his chest.

Snap, and one of his hands found its way to her breast. The other got tangled in the bra.

“ _Kaffas_.”

“Here, let me help.” She struggled briefly—he wouldn’t move his fingers, brushing against her, circling around—and extracted herself from the bra and his hands. She tossed it aside and prepared to half-criticize his insistence, but found herself lost for words when she saw him leaning up against his elbows, openly staring.

She reached for him when the moment stretched on too long. Brazen, unafraid—to a point—and eager, her hands on his skin, on his tattoos, her name caught in a strained gasp out of his throat. Clothing tangled on their legs, caught on her foot, fell off the futon. Her toes stretched inside the sock he’d been too preoccupied to remove.

When she clutched him close and whispered his name, a broken gasp as he slid inside her, her senses left no room for anything but him.

* * *

 

“So did you get any information from Varric?”

“Hmm.”

“That sounds like a ‘no.’”

Fenris sighed and tucked Hawke’s head under his chin. She pressed a kiss against his collarbone, and not a hesitant one like earlier. He shivered, squeezed her closer, and she giggled. Another sigh, and he spoke into her hair. “He said he would ask around. I don’t know what he meant by that.”

“He may have been distracted, what with the party and all.”

“No, he…seemed to know what he was doing,” Fenris disagreed. He pushed his nose into her messed-up black hair, breathing in her scent. Sweat, champagne, skin. Hawke wrapped her arms around his back, her small breasts hot against his torso, he noted with pleasant sleepiness; the A/C in his apartment was on too high for the winter.

“Fenris?” Her voice called to him through the fog of approaching unconsciousness, and he struggled to meet her.

“Hmn?”

“Night.”

“Night, Hawke.”

* * *

 

“Thanks for calling, Hawke. I have news.”

“Fun news?”

“Varric said his landlord remembered giving my mother advice on school districts.”

“For your sister?”

“Yes. That’s what brought that subject up.”

* * *

 

“I’m not wearing anything at all, Fenris.”

“I can hear Gamlen’s gameshow in the background.”

“Oh, blast. I’m trying to be sexy and my uncle—oh, he’s back. My uncle is just divine and I love him very much.”

“I think it would be better if you didn’t ‘try,’ Hawke. You don’t need to try.”

* * *

 

“How was rehearsal?”

“Good, I suppose. Pavus is still grouchy.”

“His son?”

“Who knows at this point? No one dares ask.”

“So now that you’re open about how much you adore me—“

“I do adore you.”

“…Well, are you coming to class tomorrow?”

“Never miss it.”

“You have to go, don’t you? I can hear that tone in your voice.”

“Unfortunately, yes. I can hear Wynne calling to me for class.”

“Well, thanks for calling during break.”

Fenris said his goodbyes and hung up the payphone. Wynne’s reprimands for his tardiness were too mild; she had a twinkle in her eyes that spoke of wistfulness and grandmotherly affection.

His muscles ached in a familiar way, his clothes stank of sweat, and his water tasted sinfully good as he headed out of class and into darkness of the already-set sun. There was certainly something to be said for the way Ballet Magisterium did things, he mused as he swiped his metro card. Danarius’s studio was no more intense, but Ballet Magisterium didn’t reek of desperation the same way. The pressure was still on too high, one could still find quietly weeping dancers exiting offices, and injuries were all too frequent, but…

No, he realized, descending to the platform in a crowd of nine-to-five businessmen. The two studios were still so alike. It was his mindset that had changed. Somehow, over the course of these four months, he had found something to enjoy. He didn’t love ballet. He didn’t have the same fire for it that Pavus or the other members of his company did. But maybe that didn’t matter so long as he didn’t hate himself and did a good job. Not everyone could be Hawke.

“Fenris. Good to see you.”

Fenris’s hackles rose at the voice. Hadriana, of course. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was her; he could hear her coughing from the bench behind him.

“Danarius threw me out, you know. You were right.”

The metro arrived, and Fenris tried to get in the first car he saw, elbowing college students aside, but the businessmen pushed past him too aggressively. The cars were already packed, and the doors protested and buzzed as they tried to close around him. Someone jostled him, and he stepped out for half a second. The doors clicked shut.

Fenris fixed Hadriana with a glare as soon as the metro sped away, but she didn’t look up. She sat hunched over, her down coat enveloping her small frame. She played with the strap on her leg brace with yellowish fingers. “I heard you’re asking around about your sister. We both know each other too well.”

“You’re not going to tell him,” Fenris warned, a threatening foot stepping forward, though he had no idea what he planned on doing.

Hadriana glanced up at that. Bags stood out under her eyes, and her frown came too easily, as it always did. Her lips looked chapped when she answered. “Why would I? It wouldn’t matter if I did.”

“You—“

“Don’t you see?” Hadriana said, a hint of her old sharp disdain evident in the question. “He doesn’t need me anymore.”

Another metro train came screeching by. People hurried down the stairs, and Fenris turned away from her, waiting for the doors to open. His stomach was a raft on stormy waters; he hoped he could navigate home in time.

“Your sister replaced me,” he thought he heard Hadriana say, but there were too many people pushing him into the open car doors now. He couldn’t even see her through the windows as the train hurtled along the rail.

* * *

 

Marian waited with little patience at the Main Street line 8 metro platform. Transferring here to River Thaig to visit Aveline, Donnic, and Carver was always a pain at rush hour, but Aveline was cooking for once and insisted she come early. There was always some sort of racy advertisement for Antivan watches right across from where Marian usually liked to wait—close to the front of where the first car would stop, and thus close to River Thaig’s exit.

A train full of people packed in like tinned fish whizzed by on the opposite side of the tracks, and Marian winced as the breeze hit her like cold knives. Once it passed, she shot a glare at the Antivan watch ad, but it wasn’t there. A bucket and brush stood abandoned to the side of the ad that had replaced it.

_‘Ballet Magisterium Premiere of SWAN LAKE: March 11-21’_

A ballerina with her leg extended above her head gazed soberly at the top of the advertisement, right where the shiny paper met the dirty ceiling of the metro platform. Holding her by the waist was a slender man with a serious, intense expression on his face.

The hair was black. The tattoos had been covered with dark makeup. The angles of his face and the shape of his shoulders had been touched up a bit with photo editing magic. But the man was without a doubt Fenris. Even if she hadn’t known, underneath his feet, ‘ _Starring:_ _FENRIS INCAENSOR as Siegfried’_ had been written in calligraphy.

Why had she never considered he danced for the most prestigious company in Kirkwall? Why had she never pieced it together?

Her train chugged to a stop in front of her, and she squished her way onto the first car, finding a spot on the pole to grab. Her elbow bumped into a tall man’s back. The train doors beeped shut, and she headed on her way, far away from the line 8 metro at Main Street and away from the ad’s new location. But there were bound to be others. And the image of Fenris holding the beautiful ballerina seared into the backs of her eyelids every time she blinked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote Hawke references in the early part of the chapter is a Mikhail Baryshnikov quote.


	11. Entr'acte: Moderato

The artist had his designs, and she’d been the most talented person for the job when Fenris had first looked into getting this work done.

“Okay, settle back.”

He didn’t need such reassurances now.

“All right. Gonna clean up a little before we start.”

Maybe once upon a time, he’d planned this out as a tribute, an homage to those who had taught him everything, everything important, everything he’d later rejected and later reclaimed. But now, _now_ , it was about him, himself, the determination to follow through on some sort of twisted plan set in stone, despite the dull buzzing pain and lasting soreness. That was his reality after rehearsal, regardless. What more than that could be the last tattoos?

“Here we go, Fenris.”

The needle hit slower than he’d anticipated. _Don’t breathe_. Buzz, bone, blinding pain, a starburst of sparkling clear light in the backs of his eyes, he didn’t grit his teeth but relaxed, let the needle perform its final agonizing dance.

* * *

 

Marian didn’t mean not to call him. She ate her dinner and forced her conversation mechanically, returned home and slept without a word to Gamlen. In the morning, she had a class, the children’s lesson. There were fewer now—Kirkwall got cold in January, though not as cold as Ferelden had—but the ones who stayed danced well with dedication and grace. At lunch, Orana said something a little too self-deprecating and Marian snapped at her to stop apologizing. Orana deflated and ate her garden chili with quick spoonfuls. How was Marian to say she was sorry when apologizing had been her objection in the first place? In the end, she went to Mrs. Elegant’s and came back with a brownie. She taped a little note—a ballpoint smiling face, its lines a little shaky—on the reception desk and placed the brownie on top.

Fenris didn’t come to the contemporary lesson in the afternoon, and Marian tried not to think on it, or at least tried to hide her relief. Nor did she try to call when the day ended and she navigated the darkening streets homeward.

And why would she, she rationalized. They didn’t need to call every day if they had nothing to say. Some couples functioned that way. Fenris had always liked his freedom, especially after his oppression under his benefactor.

What benefactor, anyway? What was his name? There was so much Fenris kept from her—no, rather, hadn’t thought to share. He was used to being on his own. Marian tugged the sleeves of her coat down to cover her wrists. Her gym bag felt heavy. Maybe people like Fenris didn’t like to be in relationships, some nasty corner of her brain whispered. Maybe they liked keeping their love life completely separate from everything else, all their secrets. Maybe—

She set her jaw and quickened her pace, furious with herself and her unkind thoughts. Fenris had been through a lot. What mattered was her patience with him, his willingness to open up with her. If she cared about him, she’d be willing to take up the challenge.

The elevator button clicked, an empty sound unaccompanied by the groaning of ancient pulleys. Marian fought the urge to kick the door, settling for digging her fingernails into the fleece of her coat. She took the stairs.

Gamlen snapped as soon as she walked in, “Another one of your _friends_ called.” The impatience in her belly roiled. “And where’s your share of the rent?”

“I gave it to you yesterday.”

He stifled a burp, the armchair creaking. “No, you didn’t.”

“I _did_ , Uncle,” Marian enunciated the title. “I put it by your toolbox.” When he made to get out of his chair, the impatience spat out of her mouth. “Must be why you didn’t see it there.”

“Well, if customers instead of your friends were calling—“

“Which friend?”

“I don’t know,” Gamlen whined, rustling in the kitchen on the counter opposite from his toolbox. “Don’t remember what he looks like, just growled at me over the phone, sounded like he couldn’t talk, don’t know why he had to be rude to _me_ —“

Marian’s foot moved of its own accord towards the phone dock, but the rest of her froze.

Gamlen clunked something metal about. “Ah. So you did. Good girl. I’ll drop this off downstairs.”

The apartment door shut behind him, after he muttered something unflattering about her gym bag being in his way. Marian made for the phone and tapped Fenris’s number on the keypad.

He picked up on the second ring. “H’lo?”

“It’s me.” She swallowed. “No caller ID, remember?”

“Uh-huh. Called earlier.”

“Yes, my uncle told me.” She cast a glance at the door. She could still hear his slow footsteps descending the staircase. “Everything okay? You sound a little odd.”

“Uh-huh. Will tell you in a few days. Wanted to ‘pologize for missing class.”

The coat was suffocating her, Marian’s neck damp with sweat. “Everything okay?” she repeated.

“Around in a week?”

“Am I?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Next Monday? Sure.”

“Kay. Call you then.” A pause. “Don’t worry, Hawke.”

“Okay.”

He hung up.

Marian stared at the silent phone until CALL ENDED was replaced by the date and time. She set the phone back in the dock, and Gamlen burst back into the apartment.

“Asshole wasn’t even home, had to drop it through the letterbox. Can you believe it?” Marian unzipped her coat and headed to her room. “You even listening, girl? You don’t care if your money’s safe or something?”

She shut the door behind her, muffling her uncle’s grumbling. Irrational, anxious thoughts swirled around her head, conjuring up images of delicate ballerinas, memories of prolonged silence. Unable to imagine whatever was making Fenris sound so mysterious and garbled over the phone, she settled for vague uncertainties.

Marian opened a drawer of her desk and fished out Bethany’s music player. It was an older model—she’d purchased a new one while at school in Orlais—but the headphone jack only crackled a little when Marian plugged her battered set in. As the top 40 hits from her days in Lothering’s tiny high school trickled through her earbuds, she let her feet guide her away from emotion and into raw, physical action.

* * *

 

_Hi, Marian! Happy new year. I am sorry I didn’t write to you sooner. Orsino has really been keeping us busy! I know our trip to Kirkwall is still a month away or so, but he wants to give us the best chance at securing any new sponsors. It’s really quite important to him. And to me. I know I said “us,” but he looks out for me, and I think he wants to make sure I have a means of support once I finish school._

_Marian, I love this so much. There’s really no other way to dance. I know it’s a whole lot of cutthroat competition ahead of me, but there’s nothing else I’d rather dedicate myself to. This trip to Kirkwall…it means everything to me. Of course I’m excited to see you and Carver, though! I’m looking forward to seeing everyone._

_Please respond with everything that’s going on in your life. I’ve so much to say about myself, but I realize now that I know so little about how you are._

_I love you!_

_Bethany_

* * *

 

“Are your students giving recitals this week?” Marian asked Anders while she refilled her water bottle. Anders eyed the fountain’s progress with poorly disguised impatience.

“What? No. I told them they didn’t have to.”

“Do some of them want to?”

“I don’t know, Hawke. I didn’t ask.”

She stopped pressing on the button and screwed her lid back on the bottle. Anders stepped closer, and she moved out of his way. He began filling his own.

“Some of them might have friends who’d like to see their progress,” Marian began, but he shook his head before she’d finished her sentence.

“I haven’t been giving enough lessons for them to really improve.”

“To your eyes, maybe.”

“Why are you hounding me?” Anders snapped, fixing her with a fierce glare. The muscles in his neck were taut, workout shirt slipping slightly. The skin by his collarbone looked red and shiny, like he’d gotten—“My students don’t have impatient parents wanting their kids to make it on a reality show. They’re just people.” He adjusted his shirt and turned back to the water fountain.

“Won’t ask again,” she muttered.

“They’re just people,” he repeated. “I’m volunteering in Darktown.” Snapping the lid back on, he added a borderline apologetic, “See you later.”

She waited for Anders to leave first, which he did, banging the reception room door behind him. Marian heard Orana say something with a querying intonation, but Anders didn’t respond. Assuming it was safe to enter, Marian opened the door and prepared to say her own goodbyes.

Anders was nowhere in sight, but Fenris was in his preferred chair in the waiting room in his typical lounging pose. Marian’s heart pounded once, very hard, before returning to its normal pace. His crossed arms looked tense and he was looking not at her but at the entrance.

“I hope it’s all right if I leave,” Orana offered. “I know you and Fenris—“

“It’s fine, Orana. Get home safely.”

Fenris turned to look at her then, Orana bustling to get her things, and the serious look on his face relaxed. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he covered his mouth. The door jingled with Orana’s departure, the sound not quite in sync with the frantic beating of Marian’s heart.

“Hello, you,” Marian said, sliding into the seat next to his. She reached for the hand on his mouth and he let her uncover his face.

“Hello, you.” White lines trailed from just underneath his bottom lip down his chin and onto his neck, branching out like vines on his skin. A sudden desire to know what they would taste like overwhelmed Marian’s senses for a brief instant, but Fenris’s voice brought her back to reality. “They’ve mostly healed.” He paused. “Mostly.”

“I see,” she said, allowing the disappointment to show on her face. Fenris smiled again, a small expression that nevertheless eased the past week’s stress from her memory.

“I’m looking forward to finding out what your fingers will feel like on them,” he confessed, playing with her left hand. Warmth flooded her chest like she was a teenager, and she giggled. He cleared his throat and stood up, linking his hand in hers. “Shall we go somewhere?”

“It’s cold,” Marian pointed out.

“Do you have your coat?”

They put on their jackets and slung gym bags over their shoulders. Fenris reached for her hand again, but he had to turn away while he did so. Marian locked the studio behind them.

“Where would you like to go?”

He shrugged, but his shoulders looked tense. The old nervousness began worming its way into Marian’s gut. “Let’s walk somewhere. I haven’t been…enjoying the metro recently, so if you don’t mind, perhaps we could walk to the park.”

Overcrowded metro stations, industrial-glued metro ads, black hair and a pretty girl. Marian forced a smile. “Okay. The park it is.”

Fenris seemed content to merely hold her hand on their walk. Every now and then, he’d glance down at their linked hands, but when he noticed her attention, he looked away and his grip slackened. Marian gave him a little squeeze, and though he smiled a slow, embarrassed grin at that, her annoyingly anxious inner voice whispered that she was gripping onto the sleeve of someone who was already turning away.

It wasn’t a very nice park, especially with the sky just this side of dark. A group of teenagers had commandeered the playground, one boy dangling his legs off the top of the monkey bars and the rest gathered in various slouches on the swings and grungy pirate ship. Fenris and Marian walked past them, to where broken concrete slabs jutted from the dry grass and worn dirt and construction yellow tape advertised a Stannard & Co construction project. Fenris leaned against one of the more vertical slabs and fixed a serious look on Marian’s face.

“It’s good to see you,” he said when she didn’t speak first. His eyelids flickered, but he kept his gaze focused on her. “I…missed you. But I had to let my tattoos heal.”

“I’m always happy to see you.” When Fenris didn’t seem inclined to do much more than play with her fingers again, she mustered her courage. “What’s going on, Fenris? You wanted to talk about something, didn’t you?”

 He took a deep breath. “My benefactor threw Hadriana out. Danarius did, I mean. According to her, my sister...” The hand playing with her fingers stilled. “I think I may have misheard, but apparently, my sister ‘replaced’ Hadriana somehow.”

It had nothing to do with her. The thought doused Marian’s mind like cool water. How _selfish_ she was. Fenris was supplying all this information, even the name of his benefactor, and still Marian thought it was all about—“What does ‘replaced’ even mean?”

Fenris’s lip curled. “I don’t know. I fear…” He shook his head. “I don’t know what I fear.”

_Be brave, Marian_. _Just ask_. “What were you thinking?”

“I think that my sister has replaced _me_. I think she’s with Danarius.” Closing his eyes, he added in an undertone, “I don’t know what to do.”

Marian leaned her shoulder against the slab and watched him. His lashes stood out against his eyelids. “You’re not going through this alone.”

“Will you help me find her, Hawke?” He opened his eyes now, whites bright and earnest. Marian stared, insides churning. “It…it would mean a lot to me.” His lips tilted downwards, drooping as much as the healing tattoos allowed him, his eyes wide and pleading.

She couldn’t abandon him now. The thought that this whole while she’d been shying away disgusted her, made guilt chomp little bites out of the pit of her stomach. Marian took a step closer, and when he lowered his head, she wrapped her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. She clung to him, his thin but powerful frame, feeling the slippery down coat and the warmth emanating from him. After a moment, Fenris pressed an arm around her back and squeezed her close. She could feel his mouth, gentle on her shoulder, and Marian knew she belonged to him, that he was worth her own stupidities and fears and mess-ups, and his, that this Danarius had no room to sink his claws into Fenris if she kept him in her embrace.

* * *

 

His muscles ached, a constant throb that accompanied him throughout his morning routine. It had taken a long time, but finally Fenris could admit he took a certain pleasure in the pain. A product of hard work, of improvement, of growing, of change. Once he got to Ballet Magisterium, the pleasure—and pain—faded, replaced by focus and sweat.

The car was getting more use now, and Fenris was beginning to lose his caution in driving it to rehearsal. There was something exciting about a clear road in the early sunlight before rush hour. One day off, he drove out of town, catching up with the flow of traffic, until he realized he’d reached the Wounded Coast. Fenris exited off a ramp advertising a “scenic point,” parked, and got out of the car to stare down at the sharp coastline. It was the middle of January. No one else was around to feel the thrill of the wind slamming into their sides, to see him, arms outstretched and eyes closed, breathing in the salt and sand and gravel, to see him alive. The Wounded Coast spread out before him like a blank canvas, the only barrier between him and the cliffs a low guard rail. Salt and snow, sharp in his nostrils. Fenris had stood like that for longer than was probably good for his lungs. He returned to his car and drove back to Kirkwall only once his fingers began to smart.

Nights he spent with Hawke, either at the Hanged Man or else alone in his studio apartment. He liked touching her, liked tracing the way her muscles stood out when she moved this way or that, liked scraping blunt fingernails in circles on her spine until she turned to face him with a sleepy, pleased compliment. She seemed to understand that this was something Fenris needed. He didn’t need to explain what had changed about her, about touch, any more than what he’d explained the night of their reunion or in class.

His heart clenched in his chest at just the thought of last night, Hawke’s face in profile looking out the window of his flat. It had been raining, the sort of icy, bone-drenching sleet so typical to the Free Marches’ winters, the mug full of tea and honey she’d clutched to her chest making the glass steam. Fenris had gone to kiss her, his own tea forgotten on the half-wall, but when he splayed his fingers against the back of her neck and the wisps of black hair there, she’d arched into his touch, eyes closed and cheek turning and nuzzling his arm, and he’d _shattered_ —

“That’s exactly how I want it!” Pavus roared, delighted. Fenris lowered Diana down to the practice room floor, his arms trembling just slightly. Diana beamed at their director, her hands on her hips, her back shining with sweat. Fenris allowed himself to smile as well. The _pas de deux_ was easier on him than her, but that final pirouette was a fast one, and it lead into Diana’s leap into the air, which required on Fenris’s part a good deal of effort and support if he didn’t want her to fall. Pavus stepped forward, mustache bristling with excitement. “Heart-aching. Heartbreakingly beautiful. Siegfried, I could see the wonder in your eyes, in every movement. And Odette…” He paused, and the whole company held its breath. “Odette, you’ve been giving this your all, haven’t you? That audience—“ Pavus pointed to the mirror, “—that audience is going to fall in love with you. Your grace, your pain, your—“

“If the theatre doesn’t burn down around their ears, sure,” one young swan—Grace, Fenris remembered—piped up from the back. Some other swans nodded as she continued speaking. “Didn’t you hear? Some gang or something set fire to a theatre company in Starkhaven.”

Fenris turned his attention to Pavus, but to his surprise, the director took the bait. “Starkhaven’s a good way from here,” he disagreed. “I hardly think—“

“I hear some other warehouses and smaller complexes got vandalized, too,” Feynriel said from the barre. The tension among the company Fenris had been feeling all week broke, and it was only now that he realized Pavus’s rogue son was only half the cause. Dancers began chattering anxiously to another, to Pavus, striving to be heard.

“Enough!” Pavus shouted over the rumble. “I’ve already spoken to our security company—“

“And the—“

“Yes, _and_ the police, Grace. We’ve beefed up security on the premises, and opening night, we may have officers stationed. _May_. But that’s only if this doesn’t get resolved soon, which I am fairly confident it will! These are a bunch of foolhardy kids at play. You all just need to focus on being adults, and putting on a beautiful show. Let’s move on.”

Fenris moved off to the side so the Antivan dancers could take center stage, but as he eyed the twitch in Pavus’s jawline, he thought of Pavus’s son, like everyone in the company was sure to be doing.

* * *

 

“You gonna see Fenris anytime soon, Hawke?” Varric called from somewhere in the apartment. Marian stopped scrubbing the bathroom tiles and sat up.

“I don’t know,” she called back, voice echoing. “Define ‘soon.’”

“Like, I don’t know, sooner than he’s able to get antsy about his sister.”

She squeezed suds out of her sponge and stood, resting the grimy thing on the sink. “I’ll probably see him this weekend,” she said, stepping out of the bathroom. Varric stood in the small hallway with a broom. “Isabela and the two of us are going to a movie on Sunday.”

“Ooh, ‘the two of us.’”

“And Isabela.”

“If she was here, you know what she’d suggest instead of a movie.”

Marian grinned. “She already did, until Fenris said he hadn’t been to a movie in a while. Anyway, was there something you want me to tell him?”

Varric shrugged and continued sweeping. “Ah, maybe it’s better if I tell him. I found out something about his mom.”

“Yeah, probably better if you tell him, but I don’t know when the next time he’ll be free enough to grab a drink. His director has been working him hard.” She chewed her lip, debating. “Did he tell you he dances for Ballet Magisterium?”

“Yikes. Keep him away from Anders.”

“Apparently they had a weird conversation the other day. Fenris told me when he picked me up from work.”

Varric snorted. “Blondie’s been acting weird for months now. I wouldn’t take it to heart—he just hates how Fenris is caught up in ‘The Establishment,’” he added, making little quotes with the hand not gripped on the broom handle.

“Apparently his sister is, too,” Marian said, leaning against the doorframe. “At least, according to Fenris.”

“Double yikes. I guess I better see him sooner rather than later.”

She finished cleaning up at Varric’s shortly after. It never hurt to have Varric owe her a favor, and though the skin on her hands was shriveled and damp, the apartment above the Hanged Man practically glowed with their combined labor. He was supposed to expect Bartrand and a nurse at some point this weekend, to see if Bartrand could get adjusted to a halfway house, and Varric being Varric needed the apartment spic and span for the meeting.

Back at home, Gamlen was watching one of his gameshows with enough smugness to suggest he’d had a job earlier that day—not that Marian kept up with his schedule. “Five hundred sovereigns!” the show host screamed, and the audience roared with her. Marian shrugged her gym bag off her shoulder, gripping it by the handles, as she watched with mild interest.

Without further warning, the screen went blue, then switched to KW6 news. “Andraste’s soiled—“ Her uncle swore, reaching for the remote.

“I think there’s an announcement,” Marian shushed him.

“We apologize for interrupting your scheduled programming,” the handsome news anchor began.

“Yeah, you damn well should!” Gamlen muttered. She hushed him again.

“The Kirkwall Police Department would like to issue the following notice. The Eluvian Theatre in the Alienage District currently under construction has been set aflame. Fire marshals are on the scene, and the fire has mostly been quelled. The suspected individuals responsible for this arson are still at large.”

“That’s Merrill’s aunt’s theatre,” Marian said, her voice hollow. Gamlen grunted inquisitively, but the news anchor kept speaking.

“Security camera footage captured an image of the arsonists fleeing the scene. If you have more information, please call the Kirkwall Police Department.”

A still of a darkened theatre appeared on the television screen for a moment. Most shadows or shapes belonged to props or boxes, but in the corner of the image, helpfully illuminated by a zoom, an out-of-focus arm loomed, decorated with white tattoos.

“Please be on the lookout for any suspicious characters bearing similar tattoos or symbols. Police believe bearing such marks signify a relationship to a more organized movement which may be responsible for the string of arsons this past month. Thank you for your time.”

Gamlen harrumphed as the screen switched back to his gameshow and said something undoubtedly snide, but Marian wasn’t listening. The arm pictured wasn’t Fenris’s arm. He’d explained to her one long night, under his duvet, from where his inspiration came. Their fingers had danced across each other’s skin, tattoos, and birthmarks, until the touches became more heated and talk of the past forgotten.

If that wasn’t Fenris’s arm, it was perhaps the arm of one of those who had inspired him. But no one looking at him would think that. Marian shoved past Gamlen’s armchair, ignoring his complaints, and reached for the phone. It rang for a long time.

“Hawke? Is that you?”

“Donnic. Is Aveline home?”

“She’s on duty.” Donnic paused, and Marian struggled to find words. “D’you need something? She may be home late—“

“I’ll call back some other time.” She said goodbye to him and hung up, his silence speaking volumes. She ran her fingers along the phone buttons, debating who to call next.

Merrill’s aunt Marethari’s theatre had been set alight, and someone with tattoos like Fenris was responsible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Allegro agitato

The phone rang in her hand before Marian had a chance to dial. She pressed the pickup button in an instant while Gamlen grumbled.

“Hello? Merrill?”

“She’s at her aunt’s,” Carver’s voice replied. Marian’s hand jerked the phone away from her ear in surprise, then pulled it back when Carver continued speaking. “I take it that means you heard.”

“Was watching the news with Gamlen.”

“Get out of the way, girl! You’re blocking the TV.”

Marian shuffled into the kitchen, phone glued to her hand and ear. “I’m not wrong, am I? The Eluvian Theatre is Marethari’s, isn’t it?”

“She was here. Merrill. She got the call about an hour ago.” Carver took a deep, shaky breath that rasped into the phone receiver. “I wanted to let you know that she—and her aunt—are doing all right. As all right as they can be. Marethari is blaming herself.”

Marian paced on the kitchen linoleum. “That’s ridiculous. She couldn’t have—“

“I know. Merrill said something to me, though.” Marian quit pacing and listened. “Her aunt apparently was going to sell the theatre.”

“Sell it?” Marian’s voice rose in shock, and Gamlen told her to pipe down. She ignored him. “Whatever for?”

“According to Merrill, Marethari wanted to protect her from…from this career path. She was going to leave the money to her, and…” Carver broke off for a moment. Marian waited, suppressing her impatience to know. “She thinks that’s why the burning happened, why she blames herself. Merrill said Marethari told her she took this ‘demon’ into herself, something like that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Can you come over?” Carver blurted out, then paused to collect himself as Marian froze. “Look, you still have my address, right? There are a few things I want to talk to you about. They’re related to this.”

Marian swallowed, hoping the sound didn’t register through the speaker. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be there soon.”

* * *

 

Fenris breathed in, slowly, tasting the chilly air of the empty practice room pass through his lips, then moved. Flat back and extended limbs. No foreign hand touched him, but he imagined anyway: threads laced through his skin, pulling him around the room. The tension between his body and the walls around him threatened to push him beyond limits of control, but he kept his emotions and muscles in check and didn’t let the throbbing in his feet distract him, didn’t allow his mind to give in to any thoughts other than his knowledge of embodying Siegfried.

The pianist had gone home for the day. No music or other dancers accompanied him. But _Swan Lake_ would open in only a few short weeks, and he had to master this. Not for Ballet Magisterium, but for himself. Fenris didn’t need any accompaniment for sheer determination. He’d received a noise complaint from his downstairs neighbor for practicing in his apartment, and so he’d taken to staying later at Ballet Magisterium in case he felt like putting in extra hours. It meant he hadn’t seen as much of his friends as he’d liked, but he was making it up to Hawke and Isabela with a movie this weekend—

He overextended and bit the inside of his cheek as he landed on his ankle wrong. That could have been bad. He eased off the foot he’d nearly injured and stepped into a cool down. “Is that you, Diana?” he called to the shadow in the doorway, going through the motions.

“It’s just me,” Wynne said, walking inside with a smile. “I was admiring your diligence.”

Fenris laughed once, more amused than embarrassed. “You can certainly admire my diligence more so than my technique,” he agreed, holding his foot high enough above his head for the muscles in his leg to twinge. “I suppose you saw that.”

“All of it,” she affirmed. Her smile was soft, but her gaze intense, scrutinizing. He faltered under it and walked over to her, but she beckoned him over to the bench running alongside one of the walls. “I didn’t mean to spy on you,” she said once they sat. “I wanted to see something for my own eyes, however.”

“I didn’t quite follow your choreography,” Fenris began to apologize, but Wynne’s patient look silenced him.

“Your posture has improved remarkably, and you’ve given Director Pavus and I little cause for complaint with your interpretation,” she allowed. “But I wanted to—forgive me, Fenris.” Wynne cut off and rested a firm hand on Fenris’s knee. The tenderness of the gesture quelled any flinch he might have felt.

“What for?”

“I was watching the news.” When Fenris stared blankly back at her apparently meaningful sentence, she sighed. “You’ve been practicing all evening?”

Fenris could feel his sweat drying on his skin, cold and clammy. “What happened?”

“It’s only—another theatre has been burned. Arson, again. The Eluvian Theatre, do you know it?”

“It’s in the Alienage district.” Fenris furrowed his brow. The name rang a bell, one close to home, but he couldn’t quite place why.

“Security footage almost caught the suspects. They had—they had unusual white tattoos. Very much like yours.”

White tattoos on dark skin under his excited teenage hands, running past a woman with white ink by the hospital—

Fenris’s mouth went dry. “You wanted to see my tattoos.”

“I’m sorry, Fenris. I didn’t mean—“

“I know.” She lifted her hand from his knee, and he folded his hands in his lap. The white lines drilled into his fingerbones spiderwebbing up his wrists and arms were raised, like bits of bone exposing his insides to the world.

“I tried to join them when I was a teenager,” Fenris said when Wynne stayed quiet. “The ones who may be setting the fires—or not, I don’t know,” he added when Wynne raised her eyebrows. “They were a group. They had these,” he gestured to the lines on his right arm, “remarkable white tattoos. Each person had a specific set, designed alone. They didn’t cover the whole body, just were in certain places. When I realized I wasn’t—I couldn’t join them, I eventually decided that I would get them, too. But mine would be a part of me, entirely. Like a spell, I suppose.”

“Fenris,” Wynne said, “you don’t have to tell me this.”

He froze. She was right. He’d been foolish to—

“You don’t have to give up your entire being to dance.”

Swallowing was difficult. He tried to speak, but her eyes were too kind when he looked her in the face. Wynne stood up, the harsh lights of the practice room softer on her.

“I know you must have gone through a lot of pain and have hidden many things in order to get this far,” she said, “but now it’s your turn to reclaim it. Reclaim the pain. Reclaim your secrets. Most importantly, reclaim your body. Change is within your grasp, Fenris.” Her eyes lit with a fire Fenris had never seen in her, and he had a feeling she wasn’t entirely talking about him. She turned her back on him before he could respond and strode out of the practice room.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have enough faith in you,” she added, pausing in the doorway. “I owe you better than that.” He looked at her, long and hard, until she cast her eyes over her shoulder at him. “You’re a gifted person, Fenris.”

It wasn’t quite an apology, but then Wynne was gone, and Fenris sat stretching his legs until he was sure no one else was in the building.

* * *

 

Carver’s apartment was exactly as Marian had expected it to be: small, clean except for an empty Tomwise takeout bag, and minimally decorated. She couldn’t imagine what the rent would’ve been if Carver hadn’t immediately explained upon her compliments that it was a Stannard & Co. company apartment. They’d been quietly sipping tea together on his kitchen barstools since that blurting of information.

“Meredith was going to buy Marethari’s theatre,” Carver said when the silence proved too much for even him.

Marian looked up from her tea. He had added too much honey, but Carver always liked his tea sweeter than she did. “I guess that’s not happening anymore.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her yet.”

“To Marethari? I thought you—“

“No. To Meredith.”

She paused and took a contemplative sip. “I didn’t know you and Meredith Stannard discussed such things,” she threw out casually, trying not to sound too prying.

Carver got defensive anyway. “I only knew this because I work in Feasibility. We’d had a client who already had plans for demolition, and when I looked into it, I recognized Merrill’s last name.”

“Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?” Marian asked gently. “I was hoping for news about how Merrill’s doing.”

“Damn it, sister,” Carver spat, taking a quick swig of his own tea. She bristled but restrained herself. This quick temper had been a hint when he’d been little that something else was bothering him. How Merrill put up with this would be a useful piece of knowledge to have. “It goes beyond Merrill. I am thinking of her best interests, too, you know. I’m trying—I’m trying to protect her.”

His determined features read to her less as a shining knight and more as a sulking just-turned-nineteen-year-old’s face. “I admire that about you,” she replied, honestly, she thought. “What are you trying to protect her from?”

“I think a group is targeting Stannard & Co. sites,” Carver said immediately. He took another fast sip. “I know that sounds paranoid. I know! I can’t bring it up to Mr. Rutherford because it just sounds so insane.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It’s not just me,” he insisted. “Meredith does, too. I think she does, at any rate. She’s been so snappish, even before the rise in arson cases.” He sighed and put his half-empty mug on the counter behind him. “Every arson case has been a theatre or warehouse we were ready to buy and build something new on. The police don’t have much to go on yet, but who sees a coincidence like that and ignores it?”

“Have you told the police?” Marian asked. She put her empty mug next to Carver’s.

“I haven’t told the police. I’m in bloody Feasibility,” he groaned. “I haven’t even told Merrill my suspicions.”

“It might put her mind at ease to know this wasn’t a personal attack on her aunt,” Marian cautioned. Her mind flicked between thoughts of silence and Fenris’s guarded expressions from when they first met, but she pushed the unwelcome images aside. “You should talk to her, once she and her aunt have picked up the pieces, so to speak.” Carver nodded, silent. She pressed on. “Do you have any idea who could be targeting your—company?”

“I overhear Meredith sometimes,” Carver admitted after a brief pause. “In her office, on the phone. To a family member or someone she can be honest with. She complains about a group of delinquent bohemians—It’s her words, not mine,” he complained when Marian unsuccessfully stifled a chuckle. “Apparently they’ve done similar things in the past ten years or so, but it was always smaller scale. I brought it up to Mr. Rutherford but he always brushes it off. I don’t think even Meredith’s told him.”

She considered his words, tapping her fingers on the seat of the barstool. “Talk to Merrill,” she encouraged him. “Aveline will look into the arsons, and you can tell her any of your concerns, too, you know.”

“I suppose. D’you…do you want more tea?”

“I would.”

He poured her a new mug and dropped a tea bag in. She put in the honey herself, and to his credit, he only shook his head with a grin. Making a decision, she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. Carver jolted at the contact but managed another sheepish grin. She smiled back.

“Mother would be happy for you,” she said. “Dad, too.”

“Of course dad would,” he rolled his eyes. “He’d be so disappointed.”

“I think he’d be proud of you, Carv.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged her off. “You, too. You got your whole act together in the end, after all.”

* * *

 

_The Last Holdouts_ was not a very good movie, the three of them agreed walking out.

It was predictable. It was too slow at some points. The romantic tension was forced. And the bulk of the plot rested on one final moralizing point about how refusing to take sides was in itself a choice of side. Isabela imitated one of the male love interests with astounding precision, and Fenris couldn’t help but throw back his head and laugh when she unzipped her down jacket and thrust her breasts through the opening, crying a quote from the movie, “Here’s something special for the boys who’ve been _bad_!”

None of them could believe they’d spent seven sovereigns on tickets, and Fenris hadn’t realized he’d be forced to chug his protein shake outside the theater because no outside snacks were permitted. Marian had tucked the shake bottle in her purse just in case security decided to check Fenris’s gym bag, which they had, “on account of everyone being so skittish about white tattoos, Fen,” Isabela had said with an eyeroll.

To be sure, the memory of the arson was still affecting everyone he knew. He was accustomed to drawing stares to his tattoos, but now he felt the eyes more closely, and it bothered him in a way it hadn’t before. Deciding on the design had been one thing. Actually getting the first tattoo on his back had been another. Continuing the process, realizing it made him feel complete, had been yet another. Finishing it and walking around Kirkwall knowing the Fog Warriors’ own smaller tattoos had been documented, broadcast in print and onscreen, was entirely different.

He’d talked with Hawke several times about his tattoos, whether they were lying in bed together in the late hours of the night or chatting casually while driving. How he’d wanted to encompass everything that time in his life had represented in one message. How he’d wanted to take back ownership of himself in such a small way but meaningful way. How he’d wanted to remember. The fact that these markings were now being used by the world as a brand felt intrusive, poisonous.

Hawke touched the back of his hand, running her fingers along the white lines there, and he relaxed and rejoined the conversation.

“—and they had insurance so Carver says they’re working all that out,” Hawke was saying to Isabela. Fenris squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.

“I’m glad for the kitten, I really am,” Isabela replied, chewing her lip. “But Fen, what’s your production’s plan for opening night?”

“Are you talking to me?” Fenris asked like an idiot, taken aback by the switch in subject.

“No, I’m talking to the person starring in a _Swan Lake_ production.”

“Oh, well in that case—“

“Didn’t you tell me police were going to be stationed opening night?” Hawke piped up. “Are they going to continue that throughout the show?”

Fenris thought for a moment. “I’m not certain,” he said, astonished he didn’t know. “Pavus didn’t say anything about that.”

Isabela raised her eyebrows. “Pavus? Of Ballet Magisterium?”

“Naturally,” Fenris answered.

“I didn’t know the production was at Ballet Fucking Magisterium.” They reached The Hanged Man, but Isabela only knocked on the door. Fenris quirked his own eyebrow at her. “Hawke, did you know?” She turned to Hawke, who looked sheepish.

“I didn’t know until I saw an ad in the metro,” she admitted.

“Andraste’s flaming ass, Fenris!” The door clicked, Isabela pushed the door open at last, and didn’t hold it. Hawke hurried through, and at Varric’s gesture, Fenris followed into the warmth of the bar. “You’re so secretive.”

“I didn’t know none of you…”

“To be fair, Isabela, none of us asked.”

Isabela plopped down on the sofa. “A stiff one, Varric, if you please.”

“I’m a taken man, I’m afraid. And besides, we’re not technically open.”

“I need one. Did you know our man Fenris here dances at Ballet Magisterium?”

Varric flicked his eyes Hawke’s direction, who nodded. Fenris did not miss the exchange and stood ramrod straight by the booths. “Yeah, Hawke told me.”

“I’m sorry if I wasn’t clear,” Fenris said when Isabela only laughed. He couldn’t tell if her teasing was more serious than it seemed. “It was not a subject I wished to discuss before I left Danarius. Once I did, it...frankly, it slipped my mind. I’m sorry.”

Hawke hung up her coat and reached out a hand for Fenris’s. “It’s okay, Fenris. We should’ve asked.”

“Lighten up, Fen. I’m just giving you a hard time.” Isabela pointed finger guns his way and grinned. “But you better watch your back opening night.”

Aveline, Donnic, Carver, and Merrill entered in short succession, in addition to a range of other customers. Varric puttered about tending to everyone, cautioning his patrons that the bar would be closing earlier than usual. The man’s brow was creased with worry as he beckoned Fenris over to him once the bar scene calmed.

“Hey, Broody. I got something to tell you.”

“Go ahead,” Fenris said, settling into the barstool.

“Varric,” Aveline interrupted. “Is Anders coming tonight?”

“Doubtful.” She nodded and returned to her husband and Hawke.

“Why, what’s going on?” Fenris asked, but Varric shook his head.

“I found something out. About your mom. From some digging I did with previous tenants.”

He felt the world around him narrow into focus. “And?”

“I don’t know how to say—I’m sorry, Fenris. She passed a few years ago.”

He blinked, speech coming slow like syrup. “Passed?”

“She…well, she died. Ferelden plague.”

Fenris stood up, wine making his vision fuzzier than he’d realized. Varric leaned over the counter and reached to place a hand on his arm, but Fenris shook him off.

“I didn’t mean to lay this on you right now, but my brother’s coming tonight. I didn’t know when I’d get to tell you next.” Fenris looked at the stress in Varric’s face and forced a smile. Varric visibly relaxed. “Drinks are on me tonight.”

“I don’t need that,” Fenris declined. “But thank you for telling me. If you’ll excuse me—“

Varric nodded, and Fenris waded his way back to Hawke, interrupting the conversation. He sat down next to her on the sofa and whispered to her, and she took his hand and led him to Varric’s office. Isabela whistled at them, Carver made a fake gagging sound, and Hawke closed the door behind them. She held his hands and talked at him while he cried.

* * *

 

She had never been one for photographs. That wasn’t her art medium of choice, but even in dance she didn’t try to choreograph the snapshots of her life into interpretive dance. Whatever Marian felt, she expressed instantly.

But if she had been one for documentation of that sort, she would have liked to see and relive some memories of the new year. Her birthday, the fourth of February. The face Carver made when she blew out her twenty-six candles—one for good luck—and accidentally spat on him would’ve been a fun one. Not a single Hawke nor a single Amell kept even a baby book or a scrapbook. They weren’t a nostalgic family for the most part.

She secretly would’ve liked to relive the night of her birthday. Fenris had been slow, his skin slick with sweat, gentle in his touches against the parts of her that made her arch her back and breathe sharp breaths. He’d driven into her, so slowly she’d nearly wept, his hands holding her down tightly as he let her know without words in a different way that he loved her. Marian had been able to feel the smile in his bites on her neck—it was a good thing February was scarf weather, because although everyone, especially Isabela and Aveline, knew why she wore one for the next few days, it gave her some solace, a measure of protection.

More good photo or even video opportunities: dancing with Merrill at Studio Amell to jazzy remixes of their favorite songs—Merrill, bright and smiling weeks after the arson, moving like grass in the wind. Aveline cooking a feast for the whole gang minus Anders, who hadn’t RSVPed, for Valentine’s Day. Isabela lounging at The Hanged Man on her favorite couch, chattering at an enthralled crowd, stories of when she’d taken on a job as an entertainer for a cruise ship. Varric’s bone-crushing brotherly hug when Bartrand told him he’d gotten hired as a cashier and had been clean the whole time. Fenris’s face when the protein shake blender had exploded—too many blueberries.

Other moments were less photogenic, but memorable enough. Life with Gamlen grew more difficult by the day, and Merrill had begun encouraging Marian to have hesitant talks with Fenris about possibly moving in together—he’d been more than willing to talk, at least. The arsons growing quieter, Carver’s doubts less vocal. Studio Amell struggled to keep on its cleaners and staff as Anders’ students trickled away. Fenris’s voice in her ear at the end of January, whispering a plea: _Don’t let them see me crying_.

But the best moment by far—even better than her birthday—was driving to the airport with Carver and Fenris in his shiny car near the end of the month. Bethany stood out from the gaggle of Orlesian ballet students, more noticeable even than her grey-haired instructor, radiant in a tie-dye hoodie and red lipstick. Fenris helped her with her bag, carry on, and purse, and Bethany followed the Hawke siblings, babbling excitedly about all the shows she wanted to see.

“And of course I can’t wait for your opening night, Fenris!” Bethany exclaimed in the middle of a story during the drive home. Fenris smiled at her through the rearview window.

“Neither can I.”

 

 

 

 


	13. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re actually joking. Alert the Chantry! They need to put this on the calendar!”  
> “And you thought I was always serious.”

Marian had no idea Kirkwall used to be home to the number of theatres on Bethany’s list. She wasn’t sure even Bethany had known it when she used to live in the city. Marian had tried to be a good sport at the beginning, but after searching up each theatre to find more often than not a listing reading “Closed permanently,” her good cheer began to wear out.

Still, it had been at least two years, probably more, that she’d last seen her little sister. Bethany had gone off to ballet school shortly after Dad had died of the plague. Bethany had been the only one in the family to support Marian when she decided to use her inheritance to open Studio Amell with Anders, who at the time had been overeager to start up his own studio. Even Mother hadn’t approved; she had blamed Marian for splitting the family up both all over the globe and all over emotions.

Bethany was chattering about something to Isabela on the metro, but Marian squeezed her hands together and tried to shake her dead mother’s words out of her head. It wasn’t easy, between the _kachunk-kachunk_ of the metro car barreling along the rail and Bethany’s baby flirtatious banter with her friend, but she forced herself to check the print copy of directions to Circle Theatre. This was one of the few larger theatres that hadn’t been converted into office buildings or warehouses or just plain demolished. No one in her friend group seemed to care very much that the city’s art scene was dying, and Marian had confessed to Fenris that she couldn’t see herself spending the rest of her life here. Fenris had said something similar, but he’d got that lost look on his face that broke her heart when she asked where else in the world he’d like to be.

“Gallows District,” the voice on the metro warned. Marian got to her feet and widened her stance to keep her balance. Bethany clung to the pole like she didn’t take the metro often, babbling up a storm while Isabela smiled at _her_ baby sister, one of her slow smiles that tended to make Marian hot around the collar. Bethany seemed to be affected, too, judging by the way her babbling sped up as her touristy camera shook in her hands. Fenris liked her sister, too, or at least they got along whenever he had two seconds of free time. He had a week and a half left until opening night, and those two seconds were becoming few and far between. He tried to make allowances, however: knowing just how many tickets Bethany’s expensive school had purchased for this trip, Fenris had offered her and Marian two tickets to opening night.

Bethany had explained, once Fenris had the two ticket receipts in hand and had taken them aside at the Hanged Man, but he took it well. He didn’t scoff at the prestigious ballet academy’s funds when Bethany had carelessly tossed out how easy it had been for them to acquire opening night tickets. He didn’t bristle when she’d suggested giving her ticket to one of the contemporary students who’d come along with her. Instead, he’d looked mildly embarrassed, thanked her, then asked Bethany if she wouldn’t be upset if he passed her ticket along to someone else.

Now, Marian and Varric were poised to be the least glitzy people at opening night of Ballet Magisterium’s production of _Swan Lake_.

“Gallows District,” the voice boomed more confidently, and Marian followed Isabela and her sister off the wagon and up the escalator. She passed the directions to Isabela and let her steer the way—Isabela knew the area by the harbor better than anyone.

Gamlen hadn’t put up much of a fuss when Marian got Mother’s things out of the closet the other day. He’d complained more when Bethany had showed up with her piles of bags, despite her promises that it would only be for a couple of weeks and she’d stay in Carver’s old room. Marian had sifted through Mother’s clothes trunk with care. They didn’t smell like her anymore—only faint traces of perfume on the pieces stuffed further down. It was easier now to do this. Mother had sold her finer, more sentimental things—even her wedding dress—when they’d first arrived as refugees fleeing the epidemic after Dad’s death. There wasn’t much to choose from. But Marian knew for a fact that she’d kept one piece of finery: the dress she’d worn to the awards ceremony when Malcolm Hawke won his first prize for improvisational dance.

After a couple minutes of searching, she’d found it and its matching clutch. Mother had always liked red even though it wasn’t quite her color—too warm for her skin tone. Red taffeta capped sleeves and skirt just down to the knees with a black ruched top to show off her cleavage. Marian didn’t have enough of that, but to her surprise, the dress hung nicely on her figure in need of only a little tailoring. She’d even found a gold cloth belt with plastic buckle in the trunk that made sewing even less necessary. It didn’t quite go, but she later bought sheer golden tights for only a couple of sovereigns, and that sort of made it all come together.

“Marian, you look—“ Bethany had covered her mouth with her hands and had broken off as Marian played model. “I mean,” she said through her fingers, “you don’t really look like Mother, but you look like—like if someone told Mother and Dad ‘If you had a baby, this is what she’d look like.’”

Marian had laughed and walked around her room a bit to show off. “Good thing I am their baby, I guess.”

She had a not-too-beat-up pair of tiny black heels and that took care of her outfit for opening night. A larger part of her than she would’ve liked to have admitted wished she could go all out and buy a new dress for her significant other’s important life event, but her savings were growing nicely and she couldn’t justify such a splurge. It was prom season, anyway, and no respectable dress shops were having any sales.

One day, she daydreamed as Isabela and Bethany laughed at an ugly statue outside Circle Theatre, she’d walk into one of those stores and try on every suit and dress they had and walk out with three bags worth of ritzy fabric. But until then, it was still nice to play dress-up in her Mother’s clothes.

“Hawke, hello?” Isabela waved her hand at her. “You having nice thoughts, sweet thing?”

Marian grinned and walked over to the two of them. “Fancy clothing.”

“Oh, Bela,” Bethany cooed, grabbing onto Isabela’s arm. “You absolutely have to see her in the dress she’s going to wear to _Swan Lake_. She looks so definitely lovely!”

“I’ll show you when we get back,” Marian offered, and Isabela’s eyes gleamed.

“I bet Fen is going to want to rip it off as soon as he sees you in it,” she said with good cheer.

The Hawkes laughed, Bethany a little gigglier. “He’s probably going to be exhausted,” Marian disagreed.

“He’ll watch you all throughout the afterparty, then, thinking terrible and beautiful things.”

“The afterparty doesn’t come until the end of the season.”

“Go ahead, then!” Isabela pouted. “Ruin my imaginative fun!”

“Come on, Bela.” Bethany pulled her arm. “We have to go inside! I need to meet my group.”

“Fine, fine.”

Marian’s boredom and straying thoughts returned as Orsino explained the history of Circle Theatre and the famous Orlesian ballet dancers who had come out of it. The oddest bit of stress on her mind had to do with Gamlen. Tired of Bethany “treating my apartment like a flaming hotel and not even chipping in,” he’d gone out drinking, drunk too much, and had spent the night in prison for getting in a serious bar fight. Marian had been planning on spending today packing up her belongings and moving them to Carver’s. The stuff was packed, but Bethany had overslept, and so they hadn’t had the time to meet Orsino’s group at the hotel with her suitcases, much less go to Carver’s. Gamlen still had another seven hours to serve, and she didn’t want to be there when he exploded.

Carver, at least, was happy to let her stay with him for the time being, while she looked at other apartments. At the same time, she was starting to feel starved for creative expression as her roots seemed to sink deeper into Kirkwall’s industrial soil.

* * *

 

Fenris held Diana steady in practice, body more on autopilot than a week before opening night warranted. Today, Hawke had moved in with her brother, and although she’d told Fenris in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want to be a charity case, quietly he wished she’d moved in with him, instead.

Out of character thoughts, but he wasn’t going to act on them. The stress had gotten to him more than he’d realized, and Hawke hadn’t asked for anything save that he make a decision after the season’s end. Fenris agreed that he couldn’t make rational decisions about their relationship on a good day, much less in the week of dress and tech rehearsal. Still, logical thoughts about how they had only been together, in an official capacity, for less than three months were often overshadowed by other, intense thoughts. He didn’t know how to tell her that nothing could be worse than the thought of living without her. A dark fear of losing her prevented him from giving voice to his sentiments.

He needed to focus. He needed to trust her. He needed to improve. He needed to do everything, everything, everything, better, better, better—

“Look alive, Siegfried! _Moderato e maestoso_ , and a-one--!”

The hours and days swept onwards, full of flat backs and aching feet. Keeping his eye on one spot in the room, avoiding dizziness. _Clap! Clap! Clap!_

“ _One_ two three _one_ two three—“

Shouts of different Orlesian phrases running together. His body reacted to them more than his ears did.

Makeup tests clogging his pores. Dye burning his scalp. Shivering, being stripped of costumes—someone had measured the shoulders incorrectly, leaving him shirtless and cold.

The same songs stuck in his head on the drive over, on the metro, walking to practice. His foot tapped in line at the grocery store.

Sweat-stained tights, reeking practice shirts, and he’d worn through another pair of practice shoes.

Coughing on a cloud of rosin when he’d stepped in the box too vigorously. No one laughed, exhaustion clear in their silence.

Coming home was no pleasure. He spent long minutes in the shower, alternating from hot to cold like he’d always done.

Tech rehearsal was a mess, and he’d expected this, they all had, but it’s a _mess_ and everyone is furious.

He’d forgotten what Hawke dances like—

“Flat back, Siegfried!” The ends of Pavus’s mustache quiver.

No protein shakes.

Just water.

Mrs. Elegant’s submarine sandwiches assaulted his memory with phantom oil and tantalizing fat while he ate his fast lunch with the company. Green salads for everyone.

It’s pressure it’s stress

He hates this he _hates this_

Why didn’t he quit when Danarius—

Hawke moved, her heat engulfing his rage, quieting it as he gripped her hips. Soft skin and the sound of her ecstasy. Words he didn’t know he could arrange in such an order spilling from his lips: _Festis bei umo canavarum_. Words from another family, another life, another country he can’t remember. Words for now, with her.

“No talking in the wings!” The lights went up—when had the orchestra started up? Oboes alive, instruments swelling. How did they work? He’d never learned, he’d just _danced_ —

“Break a leg.”

Break a leg.

* * *

 

The lights dimmed, packed theatre mumbling into silence, and Marian batted Varric’s suit sleeve. He grinned at her and lowered the program bearing Fenris and the principal ballerina’s faces, the music clear and resonant through the Kirkwall Opera’s high ceilings.

She had never sat in an opera box before. It wasn’t the closest one to the stage nor the highest up, but the velvety bannister and excellent view thrilled her all the same. The orchestra, enormous both in size and in sound, spread below her, a feast for the ears as the trumpets picked up over the swelling voices of the violins.

Her stomach fluttered, the music’s volume intensifying before falling to a decrescendo, and the curtains rose on the lit scene.

He caught Marian’s eye the second he was visible. He was supposed to: center stage, all eyes focused on him, in the brightest blue on stage, arm raised to command attention. His hair was black, dark skin perfectly smooth and unmarked. Even from the distance to the box, his features and expression and smile stood out. Varric nudged her and she let out her held breath.

On stage, he gestured to the court and smiled again before moving to a throne in the back of the stage. Liquid grace. The first waltz began and the court sprang into action, but Marian kept her eyes trained on him. He never once shifted out of his slanted sit, observing the dance Marian was ignoring. He didn’t look like he could feel her staring.

He looked at ease. Vaguely bored with a passing hint of interest, but relaxed in a way that she didn’t recognize.

“Pavus doesn’t tolerate evidence of hard work,” Fenris had complained to her once after a particularly grueling day of rehearsal. “’Ballet is easy, Siegfried.’ That’s his favorite criticism. ‘Ballet is effortless.’ Sometimes I hate him when I hear that for the tenth time in a day.”

But his director’s criticism had paid off. The lines of his body, sharply defined by the tension in his muscles, betrayed nothing of his thoughts—he was raw physical energy, a presence created out of the momentum of the other waltzing dancers, attuned only to them. He existed as a product of dance even when still. Marian tore her eyes away from his figure and tried to focus on the corps de ballet, but the waltz ended and he was soon descending the stairs with the new song. He raised his arms.

A memory surfaced: another solo from another act from another time. Fenris’s legs hyperextending, the muscles outlined perfectly beneath his tights. Crisp, precise, and flawlessly executed.

On stage, he smiled, expression excited and excitable, his motions to the court infecting their own responses with dynamism. Oblivious of his mother the Queen’s stern expression, he flitted from friend to friend, inspired and unrestrained joy bursting from his body.

Skill, grace, power, movement, precision, energy, talent, beauty: words that didn’t do him justice. Varric, sitting beside her leaning his elbows on the cushy bannister, could probably express what she meant to say in more adequate terms.

The oversize props—each courtier holding a goblet, the crossbow the Queen presented—Varric seemed to find amusing, and as the shock eased from Marian’s heart, she relaxed and followed the story more closely. The prince’s carefree attitude towards his courtly duties was evident enough, but she had to refer to the program when he found himself alone in the forest after having left the first act in a flurry of enthusiastic revelers. Everyone knew _Swan Lake_ , she’d thought before arriving. Marian hadn’t done more than glance at the pamphlet when they’d first sat down, too intent on soaking up the decadence of the theatre. Apparently there were more details than she’d remembered.

The oboes eased off, and Marian paused her page-ruffling self-consciously. The audience had gone still in anticipation. Even Varric had leaned forward in his seat. The Swan Queen let the prince take her hand, the music drew syrupy long tones from the string section, and the two of them swept offstage through the trees as one by one swans emerged to take their places.

He returned occasionally, following the Swan Queen through lines of dancing swans and back out of sight again, and each time he did, Marian locked the sight of him in her vision. The excitement and wonder never left his body—eyes looking where Odette was right about to be, arms reaching for her oh-so-slowly in the moment before she pirouetted away from him—and when the evil wizard appeared, his energy transformed, reimagined into aggressive shoulders and threatening leaps. Softness and gentleness returned close to dawn, holding Odette aloft with equal parts strength and yearning. When the light changed and dawn arrived, he reached for the Swan Queen turned swan once more, and the promise in the gesture gripped Marian’s heart even as the curtain fell and the lights flicked on.

The audience bustled about, ready for intermission, but Marian ignored Varric’s offer to buy her a drink in favor of gripping the plush bannister. Enjoyment, entertainment, delight didn’t cut it.

Prince Siegfried was not Fenris. He wasn’t reserved, didn’t unfurl slow smiles, didn’t tap his foot to a complicated staccato while waiting, wasn’t uncertain in his displays of affection or disciplined to the point of rigid.

But Fenris was Prince Siegfried, finally, finally, finally, finally, finally.

“Hawke?” Varric clapped a hand on her shoulder. “You know I love you, but that line’s gonna make for a thousand-year wait.”

Marian nodded and collected her clutch before following Varric out. “I’m so proud of him,” she said—quietly, she thought. But Varric reached behind him, offering his hand. She took it, black glove on large tanned palm, and he squeezed.

* * *

 

Hands clapped on Fenris’s back in congratulation as soon as he stepped backstage. Everyone’s smiling faces sparkled with sweat under the lights, their chests heaving and costumes damp. Fenris allowed himself to breathe, adrenaline fading and leaving his body feeling the exertion.

Another hand. Director Pavus’s, on his shoulder, a paternal gesture. “Don’t relax yet, Siegfried,” he chastised Fenris, but his grin was too huge to take seriously. “You haven’t finished yet.”

“I need my makeup touched up,” Fenris reminded him. Pavus flicked his eyes in the direction of the curtain, and the grin widened. It was indeed a full house, but—“I can feel the foundation sweating off me,” he spoke up again. Pavus turned his attention back and nodded, releasing Fenris from his grip.

“I’ll send the crew over in a moment.”

Fenris retreated to his dressing room and closed the door behind him. Sweat trickled down his overheated chest, exposing the tattoos on his skin in a smear. Pulling off the costume shirt was difficult, the fabric sticking to his damp skin. He glanced up, and the mirror showed someone unfamiliar. He looked like the boy he’d been, like that boy had been allowed to grow up properly. He looked like—

A knock at the door, and he turned to greet the crew. But instead, there were only two people in the doorway: a tall, all-too-familiar old man, and a short, all-too-familiar girl—

“Leto.”

His heart pounded beneath his tattooed skin.

* * *

 

The drink was good, but not as good as what Varric usually made. Marian wasn’t going to say anything about it to him, since he’d bought it for her and all, but Varric took one sip and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, you do it better,” Marian agreed, nodding at the glass, but her friend only frowned.

“No, not the drink, Hawke.” Marian deflated, embarrassed. Varric lowered his voice. “Look. Three o’clock. Don’t be obvious.”

She took another sip of her drink and flitted her eyes over the brim. When she caught sight of the older woman in the sharply cut suit, Marian nearly choked.

“I said not to be obvious, Hawke.”

“I can’t believe Meredith Stannard is here,” Marian whispered. “Of all people. Carver says she couldn’t care less for this sort of thing.”

“Well, she’s been buying up all those theatres, right? Maybe the Opera’s fallen on hard times,” Varric said lightly. Marian took in the chandeliers dripping in glass and maybe even crystal for all she knew.

“I doubt that.”

“There’s no concern like this in Orlais,” a new and unimpressed voice chimed in. Marian tried to turn around slowly, but Varric shook his head only half-irritated. Too obvious. Bethany’s instructor stood behind them swirling a flute of champagne.

“Messere Orsino, am I right?” Varric said jovially, but the man sighed and took a sip of his drink, keeping his gaze trained on Stannard.

“Orlesian secrets are harder to unearth,” Orsino said. “It’s easy for us to throw lavish fêtes and perform expensive operas in the name of ‘beauty.’ It’s trickier to see the ever-creeping cuts to education and the arts. You have to be paying attention to that. Here in Kirkwall, all your secrets are laid bare. I didn’t have to spend a week here to know everything about Stannard & Co.”

 “’Everything’ is a big word.” Varric’s smile grew so smoothly. Marian wished she could wipe the curiosity off her own expression. She bit her tongue. “You sure you haven’t missed something important?”

Orsino shrugged. “Undoubtedly. But nothing’s been handled discretely. I’m sure Stannard’s next exciting scandal will be handled with its usual degree of tact.”

“Marian! There you are,” Bethany called from somewhere behind Orsino. His shoulders relaxed visibly, and Marian felt her own muscles release some of the tension she hadn’t realized they’d been holding. “I know it’s not good etiquette, but I _have_ to ask you what you think so far—“

“If we could have everyone’s attention, please!” a voice drawled over the speakers. The bustle of snacking audience members began shuffling its way back towards the doors.

“They didn’t even flash the lights,” Bethany complained, crossing her arms, but Marian and Varric stared at the speakers.

“No, no,” the voice continued. “It’s not showtime yet. You can stay right where you are.”

“Do you think that’s—“ Marian began, and Varric nodded, expression grim.

“Sounds like Blondie.”

“Showtime will commence shortly,” Anders said from somewhere unseen, “but for now, we have an announcement to make.” The crowd began chattering, and Anders’s voice rose. “You’ve watched these dancers’ final product of their labors with delight this evening. It’s been a fine performance, wouldn’t you agree?” Several members of the crowd clapped while others lifted their glasses to the speakers. Marian could see Meredith Stannard’s glower. “We’re overjoyed you’re deriving some benefit from seeing the polished, pristine result of grueling hours upon hours spent in class and rehearsal.” Some people were still nodding, but fewer now.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Varric mumbled.

Marian twisted her head around, but Anders was nowhere to be found.

“We’re so thrilled you’re profiting from these dancers’ bodies,” Anders continued, even louder now. His microphone crackled. “Your ravenous hunger for art keeps this business alive in Kirkwall and beyond. You’re so starved for beauty, for emotion, you’ll eat up whatever processed movement is thrown your way. You don’t care that dancers have bled for you, have been stripped of any substance for you, have become bleached bones devoid of creative expression on parade for you.”

“What’s he on about?” Bethany’s mouth hung open as she stared at the speakers.

“We’ve got to find him,” Marian said to Varric over Anders’ speech. “Something terrible is going to happen.” He nodded and set his drink on the bar. Marian followed suit.

“—no longer! No longer will we stand by and allow industry to suck the life out of this city! No longer will we bow for you starving masses after you’ve swallowed our lives!”

The crowd surged uncertainly, some people making for the exit, others for the theatre doors, still others rooted in place. Marian pulled Bethany by the wrist along with her as she and Varric weaved through the masses. She jerked her chin in the direction of the stairs, and the three of them squeezed their way past stupefied people.

Two security guards were stationed at the bottom of the stairs, eyes on the speakers and arms crossed. Marian took a step out of the crowd and froze, sweat trickling down the back of her neck. The security guard with long black hair had her exposed arms laced with white tattoos.

“Varric, take Bethany and get out of here.”

“What?” Varric said from behind her, peeking over her shoulder. “Oh. Well. Shit.”

“What’s going on?” Bethany called. “People are leaving, sister. Should we leave, too?”

“You can run if you need to,” Anders was saying. “It’s better if you do. But leave today knowing that this destruction will not stop—not with us, and not with Stannard & Co. And certainly not with you.”

“Take Bethany,” Marian repeated, turning her back on the security guards. “You know Kirkwall and she doesn’t. I have to get Fenris.”

“Hawke, don’t you think—“

“I don’t have time to think!” Marian snapped.

“Looks like it’s showtime, Free Marchers,” Anders said, voice clear as ice.

Marian took off running. The security guards jumped as she sped by, the long-haired woman reaching for her hip, but she ignored them and the stairs, racing down the marble hall. Her heels clacked on the floor, tack, tack, tack, in steady rhythm.

“You all have ten minutes, perhaps, before this prison collapses,” Anders’s voice finished. “Old buildings, old establishments…Some burn quicker than others.”

No one was stationed by the rear auditorium door. Where was Aveline and the rest of the force? Marian tugged the door open and dashed inside. Anders’s voice followed her in her desperate flight down the aisle.

“Good night. Maker preserve us all.”

* * *

 

“Varania,” Fenris breathed, and for a moment, everything came to rest, to peace. His sister pushed her bright red brows together above the same green eyes he had. She’d grown tall, taller since they’d been children, taller than a school photo could convey. Her hair, no longer unbrushed and hanging loose around her collarbones, was neatly pinned in a bun on the top of her head. She bit the side of her lip, like she always did when she was nervous but trying to be brave, and Danarius stepped closer to her, casting his shadow over her shoulder. Immediately, Fenris’s shields snapped straight up. “You led him here,” he accused her. He tried to ignore his thudding pulse coming to life.

“No, Fenris. I brought her. To see you. It’s been quite some time.” Danarius’s steely gaze cut deep into Fenris’s skin, eyes lingering over the makeup-streaked tattoos. “Your performance tonight was…inspired.”

“I’m sorry it came to this, Leto,” Varania began, but Danarius silenced her with one quick jerk of his head. She shrank back, and Fenris clenched the edges of the counter.

“I only thought,” Danarius said, moving ever closer to him, “that seeing your long-lost sister would remind you of the important things. The reason you’re even here, backstage, in this,” he dismissed the makeup bottles on the vanity with a wave of his hand, “dressing room.”

A surge of courage shot through Fenris’s lips. “Shut your mouth, Danarius.”

Danarius sighed. “For all your improvements, you still lack,” Fenris saw the hand coming too late, “discipline.”

The slap knocked a thousand memories into his head. Danarius’s rough pull on his thin arm carrying the small suitcase as he said goodbye to his now-dead mother. A cane slapping his spine— _flat back, Fenris_. And a new thought, with his sister in front of him now, flinching at the impact of Danarius’s hand on Fenris’s face—Varania, undergoing the same treatment. Varania, who should’ve been safe.

Danarius seethed in front of him. “I give you everything— _everything_ —and the best you can do for me is give me lip and a half-trained sister. Do you think you have the power to ruin me, little pet? Do you think you know anything of what you’re playing with?”

Fenris tasted fire.

_“If we could have everyone’s attention, please!_ ” a voice drawled over the speakers. Danarius stood still, dangerously so. _“No, no. It’s not showtime yet. You can stay right where you are.”_

“Then we can continue,” Danarius said. “Fenris, you have one of two choices right now.”

_“Showtime will commence shortly, but for now, we have an announcement to make.”_

“You agree,” Danarius continued, “to return with me—and your sister—once you’ve taken your bow.”

_“You’ve watched these dancers’ final product of their labors with delight this evening. It’s been a fine performance, wouldn’t you agree?”_

“You continue to receive support, housing, gas, whatever you need to keep you from acting out.” Varania, behind him, looked away when Fenris tried to catch her eye.

_“We’re overjoyed you’re deriving some benefit from seeing the polished, pristine result of grueling hours upon hours spent in class and rehearsal.”_

“You sign a contract I will draw up with the proper attorneys, in which a perfectly justified share of your earnings is returned to me as payment for putting you through school all these years.”

_“We’re so thrilled you’re profiting from these dancers’ bodies. Your ravenous hunger for art keeps this business alive in Kirkwall and beyond. You’re so starved for beauty, for emotion, you’ll eat up whatever processed movement is thrown your way. You don’t care that dancers have bled for you, have been stripped of any substance for you, have become bleached bones devoid of creative expression on parade for you.”_

“In exchange,” Danarius spat, “I _don’t_ sue you within an inch of your life for theft, debt default, vagrancy, whatever I need to get my investment back from the waste of time I spent raising an ingrate like you. I run in circles more important than your little circle of champions of the just, Fenris. I know more powerful people.”

“Sir, do you hear the—“

“Silence, Varania.”

  _“We will suffer your injustices no longer! No longer will we stand by and allow industry to suck the life out of this city! No longer will we bow for you starving masses after you’ve swallowed our lives!”_

“I am not your slave!” Fenris bellowed, lunging for the old man. His fingernails scraped cloth, then met air. Varania clutched Danarius by the shoulders.

“Leto, please—“

“Stop calling me that!”

_“You can run if you need to. It’s better if you do. But leave today knowing that this destruction will not stop—not with us, and not with Stannard & Co. And certainly not with you.”_

Danarius wheezed in Varania’s arms, toppled backwards by her forceful pull. He jerked out of her grasp and leaned over by the door, catching his breath. Varania rushed towards Fenris, and he put up his hands.

“You would do this to me, your _brothe_ r—“

“He is my only chance!” she shouted. “You do _not_ know what it’s been like since mother died, since your checks stopped coming.”

_“Looks like it’s showtime, Free Marchers.”_

“You wanted this life,” she jabbed a finger at his chest in the face of his guilt, his rage. “You wanted this more than anything as a kid. You did what you had to in order to survive. Well, so did I.”

_“You all have ten minutes, perhaps, before this prison collapses. Old buildings, old establishments…Some burn quicker than others.”_

“I was going to save you from him,” Fenris hissed. “I just needed—“

“More time?” Varania laughed, a hollow, angry sound. “You took a decade, Leto!”

_“Good night. Maker preserve us all.”_

Fenris stared at her, and she stared unflinchingly back, her eyes bright and fierce.

Danarius rose slowly, clutching his back. He turned to face them, unscathed. “I will not tolerate—“

The door banged open, the edge colliding with the back of Danarius’s skull. He crumpled to the floor, coat falling gracelessly around his still form.

“Fenris, thank the Maker. We have to get out of here!” Hawke’s voice. Fenris felt the blood leaving his brain. “Did you block the door? I felt—“ Black high heels tapped into sight, legs in gold tights coming out of the shadows of backstage.

“Hawke, it’s him,” Fenris tried to say, but his tongue felt heavy. Varania gave a cry of alarm and scurried over to kneel beside the fallen Danarius.

“Oh, shit,” Hawke whispered, covering her red mouth with a black gloved hand. The crimson fabric of her dress fell around her as she stepped closer uncertainly. Fenris had never seen anything more mesmerizing than the movement of that cloth against her skin. His stomach lurched. “Is he—“

“He’s alive,” Varania babbled. “He’s alive, we have to move him—“

“Hawke. What’s going on?” Fenris walked away from the counter and closer to Hawke, surprised by the steadiness of his legs. An ominous rumbling began to growl in the walls.

“It’s Anders. I think he’s going to blow up the place. He must be part of that group. We have—we have to get out of here.” Hawke wrenched her eyes away from Danarius. “What will we do about this guy?”

“It’s Danarius,” Fenris said, then hesitated. Hawke inhaled sharply, and the plaster in the wall next to her cracked.

“What do you want to do?”

Fenris slowly turned to face Varania. She loosely held Danarius’s limp hand in hers, staring up at her brother.

“He’s our only chance, Leto,” she begged, and Fenris’s resolve hardened.

“Come on, Varania,” he said, tone brooking no room for argument. The walls shook.

“Leto!”

“I won’t lose my sister again to this man!” he snapped. “Let’s _go_!” A piece of plaster fell from the ceiling onto the vanity, and Varania jumped up.

“What will we do about—“

“This way, officers!” someone called from a distance. “I hear voices backstage.”

“That’s Meredith Stannard,” Hawke told him. “The police will find him.”

Fenris grabbed his bag and pushed past her through the doorway, pretending not to see the blood on the door. A flashlight beam rounded the corner.

“I saw the rest of the cast evacuating,” Hawke said, following him out. “Was he with you the entire time?”

Fenris nodded. “Varania.” He heard her shuffling behind him, and as soon as he was sure she followed, he gestured to the left. “There’s a fire exit this way.” He began running, and Hawke and Varania caught up. Plaster, wood fragments, and clouds of dust sprinkled the hallway floor.

“Shouldn’t we tell the police?” Varania asked, her voice half a whisper. Fenris blinked once, twice, then realized the darkness was mostly smoke. He sped up.

“They’ll think we killed him,” Hawke answered for him, her voice even softer. The fire exit winked in the smoke before them, red light diffusing. Fenris shoved the bar and sunlight poured in, polluted air filling his lungs. The concrete back parking lot of the Kirkwall Opera was empty except for his car, Danarius’s, and two police cars. Fenris unzipped his bag and began rifling around for his keys.

“We have to keep driving,” Fenris said, surprised by the raspiness of his voice. “Get in—“

“You!” A hoarse scream bellowed from behind them. Fenris whirled around to see a tall woman with long blond hair clutching the exit door. As he watched, she began clambering down the stairs. “You, with those blighted tattoos!”

“Get to the car!” Hawke shouted, and the three of them took off. Fenris fumbled for his keys and found them when they sliced his hand open. Hands shaking, breath ragged, he pressed the unlock button twice, and they piled in. The key trembled as he tried to put it in the ignition. Hawke reached over him and slammed the lock. The car roared to life, and Fenris sped away from the screaming woman and smoking opera house. Armored police vans just barely blocked the exit, troopers hurrying into the building. Fenris swore and swerved around them.

“They found him, right?” Varania demanded from the back seat. “They must have found him.”

“Maker, Varric and Bethany must have gotten out safely,” Hawke whispered. Sweat dripped into the cut on his hand and stung. “I told them to leave as soon as Anders started—started doing his stupid _shit_!”

“That was early,” Fenris assured her, lips tight. “They must be long gone by now.”

“Leto, I can’t believe you just left him there!” Varania shouted. He narrowed his eyes at her in the rearview mirror, but she didn’t back down. “He would have given me everything!”

Fenris bit down, hard, on his lip to keep from swearing at her. “We can figure everything out when we get back,” he said. Sirens wailed, emergency lights zipping past them in the direction of Kirkwall Opera. “You’re not alone. We’ll get through this.”

* * *

 

Varric had hurried Bethany to his place along with the tide of the fleeing crowd. Carver, Merrill, and Isabela had been spending every day there since the destruction of the Opera, but Bethany’s school was cutting the trip short due to the attack. She would be leaving with Orsino and her fellow students tomorrow.

Aveline, for her part, was furious with herself. She had not been stationed at Kirkwall Opera that night due to a last-minute change in patrol, and while she had no proof, she was certain the Fog Warriors had sympathizers within the force. Anders, for his part, had simply vanished. No explanation. No further speech. Nothing.

Varania had refused to engage in any conversations with Fenris lasting longer than two sentences, but Marian suspected she didn’t know how to adjust, either to his new name or his new self. The evening news had reported Danarius among the missing.

And Fenris spent each day of canceled performances pacing, on the phone sometimes, talking with his hands, while they made their plans for Danarius’s return.

* * *

 

“You know, I hear Orlais is pretty nice this time of year,” Bethany said once Marian had released her from the goodbye hug. The rest of her class was clustered in small groups around the lobby, speaking in muted tones. Their own party—Carver, Fenris, Merrill, and Isabela included—gathered around Bethany, a protective huddle. “I even heard you have family down there.”

Marian’s answering smile wobbled a little, but Carver spoke for her. “We’re picking up the pieces here, sister. I for one am glad you’re headed back.”

“Carver, happy I’m going to dance school? You’ve changed.”

Carver’s somber expression didn’t change. “A lot has changed.”

Bethany’s teasing grin faded. “All I’m saying is—“

“I know, Bethany,” Marian said, stepping close to kiss her cheek. She could feel her sister’s eyelashes against her own cheek, a little damp. “We’re not as far from home as you think.”

Merrill gave Bethany a quick but strong squeeze once Marian had moved away. “The same offer goes for you, Bethany,” Merrill said seriously. “You’re welcome any time.” She returned to Carver’s side, letting Fenris in.

He considered Bethany for a moment, and she raised her arms halfway. Instead, Fenris walked forward few paces and pressed a kiss against her other cheek. “Be well,” he told her. Bethany nodded several times more than necessary, visibly fighting tears as Fenris walked away.

She hadn’t wanted to talk about what had happened, Marian realized. Varric had only told her that he’d gotten Bethany out as fast as he could, that Orsino had helped, and Bethany had affirmed this. But that was all she’d got out of them. Orsino, eternally an enigma and standing by the revolving glass doors talking to the bus driver, looked much more drawn than she’d remembered.

Marian opened her mouth to offer her sister more reassurance, but to her surprise, Fenris placed a hand on her back and began guiding her away. She quirked an inquisitive eyebrow at him, and in her peripherals, she saw Isabela step close, very close to her sister. Before Fenris could clue her in, she twisted around just in time to see Isabela, her hands cupping Bethany’s face, press a gentle kiss against her lips.

Fenris’s hand pressed more firmly on her back, and she allowed him to shepherd her out of the hotel.

* * *

 

Once inside the lobby of his apartment building, Fenris stopped. Hawke didn’t notice and kept walking, but when she tugged on their linked hands and he didn’t follow, she twisted around with concern in her eyes.

“What’s eating at you?”

“Hawke,” he said. He pulled on her hand to bring her closer, then lifted it until her palm was against his mouth. He let his lips linger, eyes closed. An instant passed, and Hawke’s free hand was tracing the curve of his jaw, the edge of the bone below his left ear.

“Fenris?”

His eyes opened, fixed themselves on her face. Her slightly jutting chin, where he knew if he touched he’d feel a small raised scar. Her freckled cheeks, growing darker with increased exposure to sunlight. Her short black hair curling just under her ears and brushing the sensitive nape of her neck. The slope of her nose. Her pale blue eyes, now shining with worry and postponed tears, but so often alight with passion and excitement and laughter. Her body, full of the same passion, the same dynamic desire to live.

He memorized her features, catalogued them. Saved them to his mind and body in case—just in case—

“Meeting you,” he said, letting her hand fall, “was the most important thing to ever happen to me.”

Hawke blinked quickly, a few delayed tears spilling down her cheeks. “We’ve done a lot of big things together,” she agreed, voice thick. “In the future, we’ll have even bigger and stranger things to tackle.”

Fenris smirked. They let go of each other’s hands and began heading to his flat. “Is that a promise?”

“If you’ll have it,” she said. Fenris reached in his pocket for his keys. Then, more quietly: “If you’ll have me for them.”

He nearly dropped the keys. “Hawke,” he began, but she was already shaking her head.

“Forget what I said. I don’t mean it. It’s just—with opening night—and with Danarius, I just—I know you’ve been through a lot, and it just sort of got to me for a second.” She wiped her eyes with a quick swipe of the back of her hand. “I’m not actually worried, I’m just, you know, a worrier about everything else.”

“Hawke,” Fenris said firmly, and she met his look with the tears already drying in her eyes and on her face. Something in his chest squeezed once, warm and bubbling in a not-quite-uncomfortable way. With more conviction and confidence than he’d ever felt in his life, he seized her by the shoulders, then slid his hands up her neck and jaw to rest his fingers against her pressure points. “Nothing is going to keep me from you,” he said, fingers insisting, demanding. She reached for him so quickly he hardly had time to remember to kiss her, mouths colliding with such desperation that it might have frightened him once.

But now, he pulled her flush against his body, sifting his fingers through her hair and letting his nails scrape against her scalp. He knew he was shaking, could feel her tear-streaked cheeks against his skin, but his urgency and her ferocity made these things trivial. Fenris’s hand slid down her back, and she shivered against him, breaking free of the kiss to caress his neck and follow the movement of her fingers with her teeth and tongue. His hips jerked, hand slipping up the hem of her shirt, her skin smooth and warm—

The door handle to his apartment clicked, and they broke away from each other like busted teenagers. When the door opened, Fenris hadn’t quite managed to adjust his jeans, and Hawke’s hair stood up in the back. Varania leaned against the doorway, surveying them coolly.

“Hi, Varania,” Hawke chirped, voice cracking in the middle of his sister’s name.

“Dropped your sister off already?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. Hawke and Fenris nodded. If she’d been willing to talk more these last few days, Fenris would dared to have called her tone amused. “Aveline’s outside,” Varania continued. “I was going to let her in.”

Hawke and Fenris exchanged a look, mood sobering. “I can go get her,” Varania rolled her eyes, misunderstanding. She stomped down without allowing time for a response. Hawke shrugged once she left, and Fenris held the closing door in time for the two of them to enter his flat.

* * *

 

“I have bad news and more bad news,” Aveline said as soon as Varania let her through his door. “I don’t know which of them is worse, so I’ll let you be the judge.”

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Marian said from the sofa bed. Fenris waved a glass of wine Aveline’s way, but she shook her head.

“No, thank you. You know we caught some of the conspirators before they could blow up the whole place, but Anders and the bulk of these ‘Fog Warriors’ are still at large.”

“That’s what the news report said.” Marian pointed to Fenris’s small kitchen TV, tuned to the station.

“Well, keep watching, I guess. And turn up the sound.”

Fenris did as she said, and they listened, waiting. Varania leaned in closer, and Fenris upped the volume again.

“—were survivors rescued from collapsed sections of the basement. We can thank the KPD for finding them in time. In sadder news, two of the formerly missing persons were discovered to have been killed in the attack on Kirkwall Opera’s opening night of Ballet Magisterium’s _Swan Lake_.”

Fenris’s apartment went silent.

“Grand Cleric Elthina of the Kirkwall Chantry, known for her humanitarian and missionary work in Par Vollen and beyond, was identified today, as was Danarius Prosperus, a prominent—“

Varania whirled on Fenris. “You said they would find him. You said the police—“ now she turned on Aveline, “I can’t believe you didn’t find him. I can’t believe you didn’t _look_ —“

“Aveline wasn’t there,” Marian objected. Varania’s hands shook.

“You understand what this means, don’t you, Le—Fenris? We have no future, no hope of survival! I can’t rebuild from _nothing_!”

Fenris said nothing, only sinking into a kitchen chair. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly.

“That’s part one of the bad news,” Aveline said.

“I see no problem with this,” Fenris intoned, eyes still shut.

“Meredith Stannard says she saw you fleeing the room where Danarius was found.”

Marian jerked in her seat, but Fenris remained still. Varania clapped her hands over her mouth, tears—of anger, sadness, or something Marian didn’t understand—welling up in her eyes.

“I would say no one would believe her, seeing as her testimony is full of holes at best, but—Hawke, Stannard holds sway in this city. I didn’t want to believe it, but it seems that power extends to the KPD.” When Aveline received no other response, she took a deep breath. “And now the other bad news. Stannard is accusing Fenris of orchestrating not just the attack on Kirkwall Opera, but on her other damaged properties.”

Fenris laughed, the sound piercing through the room. “She has no proof.”

“She says she saw your tattoos. Everyone at Ballet Magisterium knows you have them, Fenris—this is no laughing matter.”

“Wynne will vouch for me,” Fenris said, opening his eyes at last.

“Everyone we _know_ will vouch for you,” Marian shot back. “However much ‘sway’ Stannard has with the police, they can’t just build a case up from baseless lies. There’s absolutely nothing to be worried about.” Aveline took another breath, and Marian glared at her. “I don’t like that sound.”

“That’s because you should be worried,” Aveline retorted.

“Are you here to arrest us, Officer Vallen?” Varania snapped, and Aveline relaxed.

“That’s not fair, Varania. No, I’m not. They took me off the case—“

“Oh, so there’s a ‘case,’ now?” Varania laughed, echoing her brother.

“Would you let me finish? They took me off the case, but the everyday officers and detectives are more loyal to me than they’re afraid of Stannard’s threats. Her case won’t hold water. I’d doubt we’d even get to an arrest or trial stage. But Stannard has been so rabidly following the arson cases that she has ties to other means.”

“Aveline, please. The suspense? I don’t like it,” Marian interrupted. Aveline sighed.

“You sound like Isabela. My point is you’re in danger. Most of us, I should think. Stannard is practically carrying out an underground inquisition. Hitmen and informants at worst, public outrage and riots at best. Kirkwall isn’t…” Aveline massaged her temple, the weight of the news etched into the crinkles of her eyes. Guilt for her fearful impatience settled heavy in Marian’s stomach, but before she could say anything, Aveline recovered. “Kirkwall isn’t safe for any of us.”

The room erupted.

“Then what about our—“

“I told you we should—“

“I’m not going to—“

Marian was the first to shut up at the sight of Aveline’s haggard expression. Fenris stood up from the chair and started pacing while Varania began taking what sounded like calming breaths. “Then we have to get out,” Marian said after a moment. “The Free Marches are city-states, and they’re far. Kirkwall’s law can’t follow us forever. And Stannard is one person.”

“One very wealthy company,” Aveline corrected. Fenris quit pacing the kitchen tiles and shot Marian a look. She nodded. Aveline caught their eye. “Have you planned for this?”

“I mean, it was under different circumstances, and sort of a worst-case-scenario plan,” Marian hedged. At Aveline’s frown, she straightened up on the sofa. “Yes.”

“But it will take some time to settle our assets,” Fenris acknowledged. Varania darted her eyes from Fenris, to Marian, to Aveline, and back to Fenris. “Is there anything you can do to keep eyes off us? From the force, if nothing else?”

“I can’t promise anything,” Aveline said stoutly, “but I’ll do what I can.” She set her jaw. “Donnic and I may have to follow suit if this…trouble increases.”

“I don’t like having to pack up my life to run again,” Marian said gently. “But I’ll do what it takes to protect the people I care about.”

Aveline fixed her with a searching look, memories from the Blight year clear in her expression. “What about your family, Hawke?”

“Carver has his own plan. Merrill with him. Oh,” Marian grit her teeth. “You mean Gamlen.”

“I suppose that answers that, then.”

“Fenris.” The three of them looked at Varania in surprise. She pursed her lips under the scrutiny, but addressed the room. “I have no future here. There is nothing for me here.”

Marian saw Fenris swallow. “I will not abandon you again.”

“I don’t need to be protected,” she said, irritable for a moment, but her face soon smoothed. “I am not pining for a happier time that never was. I’ve learned enough in my life to know you can only look at the future only a few days in advance. But I—“ Her voice quaked.

“If you want to join us,” Fenris said as if he were discussing the weather, nothing pitying in his voice, “I would like that very much.”

“I will not stay with you long,” Varania said, lifting her chin. “I’ve taken care of myself.”

“You have,” Fenris said, rubbing one eye.

“Then I will come with.”

Varania and Fenris stepped forward at the same time, backs straight and identical green eyes shining, and hugged so briefly, if Marian had blinked slower, she would have missed it. But there was no awkward bumping of limbs, no uncomfortable pause. Once upon a time, in different heights and different lives, this was familiar to them.

Marian stood from the sofa and cleared her throat. “Then we should get ready.”

* * *

 

“That can’t be it,” the woman whose name Varric kept forgetting said over her untouched martini. “You must know more.”

Varric wiped dry a wineglass and hung it on its rack with the others. “’Fraid so, Seeker.”

“Stop calling me by that nickname. I have a real name.”

He grinned evasively, then swept to the other end of the bar to take another customer’s order. By the time he returned to the sink, he could feel the Seeker’s eyes boring holes into the back of his shirt.

“Check, Seeker?”

“If you continue, I shall have to think of a name for you as well,” the Seeker scowled. “I like the sound of ‘Liar.’”

“You’re breaking my heart. I’ve never been called that in my life.” Varric reached for her undrunk martini, and a possessive hand snapped up to grip the glass. He held up his own hands. “Fine, I get the hint.”

“Why are you playing coy?” the Seeker said quietly. Varric didn’t know she was capable of speaking in anything other than that barking, commanding register. “I want to know the end of this story. The real ending. Kirkwall is still passing witch-hunting laws while protests spring up like weeds. These people can’t have all simply…disappeared, as you suggest. They _all_ vanished. Why didn’t you?”

“Me?” Varric laughed. Bartrand looked up from where he was serving customers on the couch, but Varric only shook his head ever so slightly. “I don’t get caught up in that political crap. I have a business to run. And someone has to spin this story.”

“You’re not doing your friends justice by ending their tale so poorly,” the Seeker pointed out in a way she probably thought was clever. “You’re leaving something out. Something important. It’s not a proper story with holes in the plot.”

“Read a lot of romance novels, Seeker?” Varric asked lightly. Her glare deepened, as did the color of her cheeks. “Fine, I’ll give you the missing piece.” She leaned over the counter intently, subtle as a train whistle. “I don’t think they just disappeared.” Closer still she leaned. Varric eyed the martini, hoping it wouldn’t spill. “I hear rumors sometimes. Only sometimes. I think…they left the country.”

The Seeker shot straight up, jostling the martini glass, but Varric continued thoughtfully, “If that’s the case, no way for me to hear from them ever again. My cell service doesn’t cover international fees.”

The woman made a disgusted noise and slapped a handful of sovereigns on the bar. “I don’t know why I came here,” she spat, turning on her heel.

“Kept me captive long enough, telling this story,” Varric shrugged, but the Seeker had already opened the door, the bell jingling violently seconds after her departure.

Varric dumped her martini in the sink and wiped the liquid she’d spilled, keeping an eye on the door. “Bartrand,” he called, and his brother came over with a tray full of empty glasses.

“What is it now, Varric?”

“I think that last customer gave us too much change. Do you think she’s gone too far?”

Bartrand left the tray on the bar and hurried to check outside. Varric unloaded the tray, whistling to himself.

“Saw her heading down the metro stairs. Can’t say I felt like following her,” Bartrand reported after a few minutes, the bell tinkling again.

“Thanks, brother.”

“Yeah, yeah. She won’t miss a little extra.”

Once Bartrand headed back to the main floor, Varric slipped a hand into his pocket. Passing over the sleek smartphone, he pulled out his older blue phone. He flipped it open and tapped down to a number he’d never added to his contacts. He’d gotten good at hitting each button multiple times to get to the right letter, but it had taken a while to get back in the habit.

**Just told some suspiciously curious lady you weren’t worth an international service fee**

He clicked the phone closed and set the dishwasher to “glassware,” whistling some more in time with the _chug chug chug_ of the machine sloshing to life. His pocket vibrated once, softer than the smartphone did. Varric cast another casual glance around the bar, its denizens as rowdy and loud as the summer weekend demanded, before taking the flip phone out again. A message and a picture.

**I hope she called you a liar**

And the low-quality image underneath. Fenris and Carver hunched over a table, looking deep in conversation or, more likely, argument. Merrill leaning her chin against her palm, watching them. A grainy Isabela winking at the camera, the only one aware, her arm wrapped around Bethany. Donnic in the background holding some indiscernible dish, a flash of red behind him hinting at Aveline’s presence. The top of Hawke’s head down to the bridge of her nose was the only part of her that made it in as she took the picture—no front-facing camera.

Varric smiled, a flash of pleasure at the text, a jab of pain at not seeing the one person missing from the photo. He looked at the file for a moment longer before tapping his way up to settings. Another tap, and the texts and photo blipped free from his history.

* * *

 

 

**end.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of your support, kind words, art, love. It's been a wild ride!


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